


State of Grace

by AngelOfTheMoor



Series: Gospel Song [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Falling In Love, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Priest Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 66,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelOfTheMoor/pseuds/AngelOfTheMoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Father Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester are alone, haunted by their pasts. Fate draws them together, and they find themselves growing closer as they cope with the past and deal with the present. Though they seem to be polar opposites, they slowly discover surprising commonalities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. God's Will

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new to the _Supernatural_ fandom, and this is my first attempt at a multi-chapter fic for it. It's an idea that just won't let me go.
> 
> Warning: There won't be a flattering picture of John here.
> 
> This will get explicit in later chapters, but I'm not sure how explicit yet, so I'm rating it "mature" for now.
> 
> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me; it's the property of Kripke, the CW, et al.

Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester seemed to be opposites in every way. If you painted a portrait of one to the other, he’d tell you that the man could never be more than a stranger to him. They hailed from different worlds, had different lifestyles.

The only commonality between them appeared to be an abject loneliness, a dull ache of emptiness. A need to punish themselves. One did so by denying himself pleasure, the other by allowing pleasure to consume him.

But deep down, they shared more than almost any other two souls. An earnestness. Heart. Something slightly child-like that they both tried to bury within themselves.

Fate would bring them together, and once it did, it would ensure they could never tear themselves away.

xxxxxxxxxx

Father Castiel Novak loved his work, loved God, had devoted himself to the Lord. He fervently believed in his mission. Guilt sometimes consumed him so much that he doubted his worthiness for the profession, but it prompted him to dedicate himself all the more to his vocation.

He believed in the meaningfulness of small actions in addition to large ones. Any little gesture of kindness was a way of spreading God’s love.

So one day while he was eating lunch at a diner, he didn’t hesitate to give an unfamiliar man the money he needed to pay his bill.

He bit into the juicy meat of a burger, a rare indulgence, for he preferred to keep to a healthy diet. One’s body was a temple, after all. But he could never resist the burgers at Rachel’s; he’d never tasted food so divine.

As usual, the diner rang with shouted conversations, but as customers started filtering out after the lunchtime rush, it grew quieter. Soon, there was no one left but Ruby and her friend Meg, Kevin Tran studying in a corner booth, and a young man two seats down from him at the counter. He wore faded jeans and a beat-up leather jacket, and the lights seemed to pepper his sandy hair with golden flecks. Castiel observed that the man was handsome; he wondered if that’s what Ruby and Meg were giggling about.

“Mmm, that was good pie,” the man told Rachel as she handed him his bill. He dug his wallet out of his back pocket and flipped through it, pulling out a few bills. He counted them then muttered, “Son of a bitch!” He flashed an apologetic smile at Rachel and held out the bills to her. “That’s all the money I have.”

She frowned at him. “You owe me two more dollars.”

“I told you, I don’t have any . . . ”

“Bullshit! I’m tired of the excuses I hear from _your kind_.” Castiel winced at the words, at their implication that some people were worth more than others. “Hand over the money. Now.”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t worry about it, Rachel,” Castiel interrupted. “How much did you say it was? Two dollars?” Rachel nodded. Castiel placed two one-dollar bills on the table. “Here.”

The man rounded on him, his green eyes furious. “No one asked for your help!” he shouted.

Castiel didn’t know what to say, so he just stared at him. The man sighed and stormed out of the diner.

“Some people . . . ” Rachel glowered. Castiel ignored her remark, paid his bill, and left.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Dean Winchester had finally blown through the last of his money. What would he do now? He had no job, no prospects. He could see himself only aimlessly drifting through life, and what kind of a pathetic excuse for a human being would that make him?

It galled him that he hadn’t been able to pay for his entire bill. Perhaps he shouldn’t have ordered that pie, but _damn_ if it wasn’t good.

He hated that stupid priest for stepping in. He resented being the object of anyone’s charity, much less a clergyman’s. The freak was probably expecting him to be so grateful that he’d visit his church.

He was a strange one for a priest, though. Dean had always figured only losers who couldn’t get laid would go for that. But with his looks, that thick dark brown hair, those innocent wide blue eyes, his deep voice . . . hell, that guy could definitely get laid. God, had he really just thought about that? How gay. Perhaps the priest was secretly gay and came from a religious family and was hiding himself in the church.

Dean _hated_ those wide blue eyes. There was no way a grown man was that naïve. It made him want to smack the self-righteousness off the man’s face.

God, why was he even thinking about this? He had more important things to worry about.

xxxxxxxxxx

Castiel didn’t give the man from the diner any more thought until he encountered him once again a couple of days later.

He was walking home from church that evening. He lived a mile away, so it wasn’t too far, but the journey was still brisk enough to invigorate him. He liked to vary his route by taking different side streets. This time, he turned down an alley and suddenly found himself facing a brawl. One man had another pinned against a brick wall, regularly pounding into his jaw so that blood spurted from his mouth.

“Hey!” Castiel hollered. He wasn’t afraid the man would turn on him; most people were reluctant to attack a preacher.

The assailant backed up and glared at Castiel.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Castiel asked.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” the man retorted.

“Assaulting someone. Would you like me to call the police?”

The man blanched. His eyes flickered from Castiel to his victim; then he fled.

Only now did Castiel take in the features of the man attacked. With a start, he realized that it was the person he’d seen in the diner the other day. “Are you all right?” he asked him.

Castiel was afraid the man might yell at him again, but he pushed the idea away. The man shrank against the wall and glanced up at Castiel with exhaustion-tinged eyes. “Uh-huh,” he slurred.

Castiel grasped the man’s hand, observing how rough it was as he did so. “Here, let me help you up.” The man didn’t resist as he pulled him to his feet. “Would you like me to take you home?”

“Just take me to my car,” the man murmured.

Castiel put an arm around the man’s shoulders so that he could help him walk. “Where is it?”

“Just around the corner at the next street.”

“What happened?” Castiel asked once the pair began moving.

The man laughed mirthlessly. “’E’s mad that I slept with his girlfriend.” He looked at Castiel’s collar and blushed.

Something in his tone didn’t sound quite right. Castiel glanced into the man’s face. “Are you drunk?” But even as he asked the question, he knew that the man wasn’t.

“Stone-cold sober.” He gave off another of those desperate laughs. “Too broke for that.” They were silent for a couple of minutes until the man declared, “There’s my car.”

Castiel whistled at the sleek black Chevy Impala. “Nice car,” he commented.

The man flashed him a small smile, and he almost seemed to glow. “Ain’t she a beaut?”

“What year is it?” Castiel asked as they approached the car.

“’67.”

“Nice.” Castiel didn’t know much about cars, but he recognized a good specimen when he saw one.

The man patted the Impala’s roof. “She’s my baby. I’ve rebuilt her from the ground up. Twice.” Castiel whistled again; he couldn’t imagine the skill required for such an undertaking.

The man swung open the driver’s side door; then he turned to Castiel and said, in a somewhat clipped tone, “Well, thanks, Father.”

Castiel didn’t understand it. Why had the man reverted to surliness just as soon as he’d begun opening up?

Whatever it was, Castiel could see that the man needed help. He wouldn’t let the man scare him away. He extended a hand and introduced himself. “I’m Castiel Novak.”

xxxxxxxxxx

Dean eyed the priest’s proffered hand and reluctantly accepted it, giving it a small shake. The preacher’s hand was ridiculously smooth, almost like a newborn’s skin.

After the priest—what was the appropriate thing to call him? Father Castiel? Father Novak?—relinquished his hand, he said, “Dean Winchester.”

“Happy to meet you, Mr. Winchester,” Father—okay, let’s go with Father Novak—replied.

“Mr. Winchester.” No one had ever called him that before; it had an alien ring to it. He didn’t like it, but whatever. It’s not like he ever planned to see the guy again.

“Y’know,” Father Novak added, his voice nervous. “If you want to . . . come see me sometime at St. Francis’s, you’re very welcome.”

“No, thanks,” Dean scoffed.

For a moment, Father Novak appeared hurt, but he quickly brightened. “Oh, well. That’s all right. But the invitation always stands.”

“Thanks, Father,” he said softly. The priest seemed so genuine that he cursed himself for being a dick to him earlier. He wanted the Father to know that he wasn’t a complete asshole. (But wasn’t he?)

Father Novak’s smile widened. “Well, good night, Mr. Winchester.”

“Good night, Father.”

Once Father Novak had gone, Dean collapsed in the driver’s seat and threw an arm over his eyes. Fuck that meddling goody-two-shoes priest. Dean had _wanted_ Matthew to beat him up. That’s why he hadn’t resisted. He’d been hoping that Matthew would get so carried away he’d beat him to a pulp.

That he’d’ve been dead by the end of the night.

It seemed so much easier than the pain of living.

Better than his pointless life, than always being a screw-up. Better than having everyone hate him. Better than hurting everyone he liked. Because that’s all he ever did, hurt people.

Better than meeting John Winchester in his dreams every night.

But no, that fucking priest had to come along and _save_ him.

And what could he do after that? He couldn’t kill himself with those guileless blue eyes constantly flashing through his mind.

Damn, he’d known he _hated_ those eyes.

Dean crawled into the backseat and curled up, biting his wrist to counter the sting of the tears in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. I'll try to update as often as I can, hopefully not more than once a week.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Genesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.

Dean had been sleeping in the backseat of his car over the past few days, moving it every night so no one would notice him and call the police about a “suspicious character.” It wasn’t so bad; it wasn’t like he’d never done it before.

This particular night was rather chilly, though, and his jacket didn’t warm him up that much. Rain pounded on the roof so hard that it sounded almost as if daggers were trying to cut into the Impala. Dean huddled further into his jacket and closed his eyes, eventually drifting off.

A loud crash awoke him, and for a moment he thought that perhaps a bolt of lightning had struck near the car. But then he eyed a fist at the window across from him, a fist dripping with rain as it continued to beat the glass.

“Jesus,” Dean muttered as he maneuvered himself into a sitting position and scooted over to the other side. What kind of weirdo would be knocking on his window in the middle of the night, not to mention in this storm? He swung the door open and found himself facing Father Novak. Figured. That guy seemed to be turning up everywhere lately.

Father Novak stood in the rain, the edges of his black sleeves wet. The bottom of his black pants was drenched up to his knees. He held an umbrella aloft in one hand.

“Mr. Winchester,” the priest pronounced. “Why are you sleeping in your car? Shouldn’t you be at home?”

“Shouldn’t _you_ be at home?” Dean countered. He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost one in the morning.”

“I stayed late at the church. I was working on something.”

Dean slid to the other side. “C’mon in, padre. Unless you like standing out in the rain.” Father Novak snapped his umbrella closed, ducked into the car, and shut the door. “Why’re you walking home in this weather anyway? And so late?”

“I like to walk,” the priest replied.

“In a thunderstorm? What, you wanna get struck by lightning?”

Father Novak smiled slightly, just a barely perceptible quirk of his mouth. “No. I just . . . I walked there this morning. I have no other way of getting home.”

“Why didn’t you just spend the night at the church?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps I should have.” His gaze grew so intense that Dean thought he might burn under it. “But maybe it’s for the best. God had other plans.” Dean squirmed as the priest’s eyes bore into his. “Why are you sl—?”

Dean interrupted him with a hurried breath. “Do you want a ride home?”

“You’re avoiding my question.”

“You’re avoiding mine.”

“I asked first.” What was this, kindergarten? “Tell me,” the Father continued, his tone gentle. “Why are you sleeping in your car?”

Dean averted his eyes. “It’s my home.”

“You have nowhere else to go,” the priest stated matter-of-factly. How could he so quickly morph from tenderness to dispassion?

“Yeah.”

“Tell me about it,” he urged.

Dean gave off a short laugh. “Not much to tell. I couldn’t pay my rent. I got evicted. End of story.”

“You could come stay with me.”

Live with some priest? No fucking thank you. “No. There’s no way.”

“Please.”

“ _No_.”

“Please.” This time, Father Novak’s voice was barely above a whisper, his tone pleading.

Why the fuck should he be so desperate for Dean to go to his house? He must have a damn screw loose in his head somewhere.

But Dean found he could not say no to him, not when he spoke like that.

“Okay,” he breathed. He raised his voice. “But just for a coupla days.”

The Father examined him before nodding. “Okay.”

“How about I take you home, then?” Dean suggested as he clambered into the driver’s seat.

“Take _us_ home,” the priest corrected.

“Yeah. Whatever.” He inserted the keys in the ignition then turned back to Father Novak. “Why don’t you come sit up here, padre?” he suggested as he patted the passenger seat.

Father Novak scrambled to the front, his movement awkward. He bumped his head on the glove compartment before sinking into the front seat.

“Smooth moves,” Dean laughed as he started up the car. They drove in relative silence, the only words spoken being Father Novak’s directions.

Dean studied the house when they pulled into the driveway. The branches of a large oak tree swayed in the wind, as did blades of the well-manicured grass. From what he could tell in the dark, the house was light blue with white shutters around the windows.

“What do you think?” the priest asked.

“It’s—nice.” Cute, he’d been thinking, but that’d be a gay thing to say. “We should go inside.”

They raced through the rain to the doorway. The Father fumbled with his keys as he unlocked the door. Finally, they stepped inside, and Dean found himself in a kitchen. It was small but well-equipped: he spotted an oven, a dishwasher, a microwave, various appliances whose function he had no clue about . . .

Father Novak gestured toward a small round wooden table. “Why don’t you sit down?”

Dean did so, watching as the preacher rummaged around in his kitchen. He placed a teakettle on the stovetop and adjusted the settings then turned to face Dean as he leaned against the edge of the countertop.

“Shouldn’t you be going to bed, padre?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know why you keep calling me ‘padre.’ I’m not Spanish.”

His tone was so serious that Dean actually found himself frickin’ _giggling_. “It’s just a joke. Padre.”

“It’s not funny.”

“It is to me.” Dean clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter.

The teapot whistled, and Father Novak filled two cups before carrying them to the table and taking a seat across from Dean. He shoved one of the mugs toward Dean as he steeped the tea in his own.

“You’re not tired?” Dean inquired. A crack of thunder followed his words.

“Who could sleep in this racket?” Lightning flashed so brightly that it almost blinded Dean for a second.

“Point taken,” Dean replied as he sipped his tea.

“Tell me if that’s not to your liking, Mr. Winchester. I can make you another.”

“It’s fine.” Dean paused. “But could you stop calling me Mr. Winchester . . . It makes me think of . . . ” My father, he was going to say, but he didn’t want that bastard entering his head right now. “ . . . Just call me Dean. ‘Mr. Winchester’ sounds weird. Especially if I’m going to be crashing here.”

“Dean.” His tongue shaped the name as if experimenting with the taste. “Then you may call me Castiel.”

 _May?_ Sounded like he was giving permission to some five-year-old. “What kind of name is that anyway? Castiel? Sounds like you were raised in a cult.”

“I was.” His tone contained no trace of emotion, but a flicker in his eyes hinted at something dark . . . for the first time, it seemed almost as if he’d lost his self-possession.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean whispered.

“You should not take the Lord’s name in vain.” Dean sighed inwardly. Staying with the priest was going to be more annoying than he'd thought.

“Sorry,” Dean mumbled. He decided that maybe saying something about his own childhood might make Castiel feel better about the cult thing . . . not enough to make him relive that hell, of course, just enough to show the priest that he understood. “I was raised in a cult, too,” Dean began. Castiel tilted his head to the left, just an inch, but for some damn reason Dean noticed nevertheless. He cleared his throat. “Well, not really. But it’s kind of like I was.” Dean found his palms growing sweaty, and he rubbed them together to try to dry them. “My dad raised us in a cabin in the woods. He taught us how to use all sorts of weapons because we had to ‘fight demons.’” Castiel’s eyes widened as if they were drinking in his every word. That was not helping with his nerves. “Not that I ever saw any of these ‘demons.’ Still, it was like he had his own fringe religion about the whole goddamned thing.” When he realized the word he’d used, he swallowed. “Sorry,” he added. But now Castiel seemed rapt, as if any objections about word choice no longer entered his mind.

“Sammy—my younger brother—he got away,” Dean continued. “He went to Stanford. He’s a lawyer now, married, with a normal life.” Dean lowered his voice, hoping that would disguise the intrusion of nascent sobs. “But I was never smart enough for that.”

“I doubt that,” Castiel said softly.

Dean spoke louder now, stripping any trace of tears from his voice, rendering it cold as steel. “You don’t even fucking know me.”

Castiel reached across the table and placed a hand on his. “I know enough.”

Dean snatched his hand away, and the priest looked hurt, as if he didn’t understand his action had been frickin’ _inappropriate_. They stayed that way, in awkward silence, for what felt like forever until Castiel spoke up.

“Do you hear that?” he asked.

“Hear what?” Dean responded.

“Exactly.” That’s when Dean noticed—all was quiet. The storm had stopped. Castiel stood up. “I’ve only got the one bed. In my room. You can sleep there. I’ll take the couch.”

Dean echoed Castiel’s movement, declaring, once he was on his feet, “No. I’ll take the couch.” The priest frowned at him. “You’ve already done enough,” Dean explained. In an attempt to reassure Castiel, he offered a smile he didn’t feel. “Taking me in and all that.”

Castiel nodded curtly. “Very well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the second chapter.


	3. Damned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.

Castiel smiled down at Dean’s tranquil sleeping form as he donned his collar and grabbed his keys from the glass bowl by the front door.

Castiel usually welcomed moments of reflection during his walks, but this time jagged fragments of his past stabbed through, and no matter how hard he tried to push them away, they wouldn’t stop.

Long ago, he’d stowed away every scrap of memory that related to the Angelic Brethren, constructing a solid metal door to block it all out of his mind. Not that he had ceased being aware of them; they’d never ceased bubbling below the surface. He just hadn’t allowed his mind to dwell on them.

But Dean’s casual remark about cults had opened the dam’s floodgates. He knew Dean hadn’t meant any harm by it, and he appreciated Dean’s effort to soften the blow, but now everything he so ardently wished to forget pounded into him.

When he arrived at St. Francis’s, he swallowed, willing his mind to focus on other matters. The memories were still there, but now his curiosity about Dean overpowered them. He wondered whether his colleagues knew anything about Dean Winchester and his father. They lived in a relatively small town, so chances were they might. Of course, Castiel lived here, and he knew hardly anyone other than his parishioners. But unlike Father Michael and Father Raphael, he wasn’t from the area.

Every morning, they met in a small room for morning coffee, and Castiel directed his steps there now. He was usually the first to arrive, but today both Father Michael and Father Raphael were already there when he walked in.

Castiel grinned at them, nodding to each as he pronounced his name. “Good morning, Father Michael, Father Raphael.” He poured himself a cup of coffee then joined them at the small square table.

“Good morning, Father Castiel,” Father Michael said. “You’re late. Well, not really. I just thought you always arrived at the crack of dawn.”

“No, not always,” Castiel said softly.

“That was some storm last night,” Father Raphael commented. Castiel didn’t like the way Father Raphael’s eyes dug into his, as if they were rooting out his secret sin.

“Yes,” Castiel agreed.

“How’d you sleep?” Father Michael asked. “Because I swear I barely slept at all.”

“All—all right.” Castiel frowned as he stumbled over his words. Despite himself, his memories made him falter.

“Yeah, me, too,” Father Raphael said. “I like storms.” Something in his tone prompted Castiel to shudder inwardly, though he didn’t understand what it was—Father Raphael didn’t sound any different than usual.

They sat in silence, each man sipping his coffee, as Castiel tried to figure out how he could broach the subject of Dean Winchester. When he was almost done with his coffee, Father Michael broke the silence.

“Is there something on your mind, Father Castiel?” he inquired.

“Yes,” Castiel replied.

Father Michael smiled. “I knew it. Well? What is it?”

Castiel drained the rest of his mug then set it on the table. “Do either of you know a man named Dean Winchester?”

Both priests stiffened. “Why?” Father Michael asked.

 “Do you?” he repeated, his voice low, nervous.

“He’s just some loser,” Father Raphael answered. Castiel flinched at the venom in his voice.

“What makes him a loser?” Castiel wondered, his tone the same as it was a second earlier.

Father Raphael shrugged. “What makes anyone a loser? He’s a drunk. A vagrant. He’s incapable of anything else.”

Despite Father Raphael’s opinion, Castiel refused to believe that. He could sense the good in the man, his substance.

“What about his father?” Castiel continued. “What do you know about him?”

“John Winchester’s a good man,” Father Michael cut in. “He served in the Marines. Did his country proud. Sure, he’s a little eccentric, but what can you expect from a man who lost his wife like he did?”

“What happened to his wife?”

“Mary died in a nursery fire,” Father Raphael informed him. “Poor man,” he sighed. “He moved out of town after that. Said everything here reminded him too much of his wife.”

“Why’re you interested in all this?” Father Michael asked.

Castiel felt his cheeks redden and glanced down at the table, clutching its ends to steady himself. “I—I—I met him.”

“Dean Winchester? Did he give you any trouble?”

Castiel looked up, his eyes darting between his interlocutors. “No. I invited him to stay with me.”

“ _What?”_ Father Michael and Father Raphael answered in unison.

“I invited him to stay with me,” Castiel affirmed. Father Michael and Father Raphael looked at each other with widened eyes.

“Leave it up to you to take in wayward orphans, Father Castiel,” Father Michael chuckled.

Castiel wrinkled his brow. “He’s not an orphan. He has a father.”

Father Michael and Father Raphael dissolved into giggles, and Castiel didn’t understand why.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Castiel left the church earlier than usual, around dinnertime, because he wanted to check on Dean. When he arrived, he was surprised to find Dean examining the contents under the hood of his white 1993 Honda Civic.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greeted him. “What are you doing? How did you get inside my car?”

Dean looked up and smiled at him; for once his eyes seemed to agree with the motion. “Hiya, Cas.” He was going to object that “Cas” wasn’t his name, but then he thought better of it. He relished the way the syllable wrapped around him like something warm and protective. “I just thought I’d check on things for you. Y’know, since you’re doing me a solid by letting me stay here . . . I thought I’d do you one.”

“You still didn’t tell me how you got inside my car.”

“I’ve got my tricks.” Castiel supposed he should feel disconcerted about that, yet he didn’t. “And it’s a good thing, too.” He shut the hood and patted it. “There were a few issues, but it’s all good now."

“You fixed that clicking noise it makes all the time?” Castiel asked in astonishment.

“Uh-huh. And everything else.” Castiel concluded he shouldn’t be surprised, not if Dean could rebuild his Impala.

Castiel approached Dean, whether to shake his hand or hug him, he wasn’t sure, but Dean held his blackened hands up. “Whoa, man. You don’t wanna touch me. I’m covered in grease.” He spoke the truth; there were several oil stains on his red plaid shirt and jeans. “How about I go wash up?”

Castiel found himself smiling in a way that echoed Dean. “Yes. And I’ll make us dinner.”

“Oh, you’re gonna feed me, too?” Dean gibed.

“Yes.”

“You don’t have to do that, you know. You’ve already done enough.”

“I want to.”

“Okay. In that case, who’m I to refuse?”

As Dean disappeared inside, Castiel reflected that Dean’s eyes were beautiful when he was happy.

xxxxxxxxxx

Castiel threw himself into dinner preparations, eager to drown out echoes of the Angelic Brethren. When he was finished, he shouted to Dean, who had sprawled on the couch after his shower, that dinner was ready. Dean whistled when he crossed into the kitchen. Castiel had already set two places at the table, providing each one with a substantial dose of lasagna, garlic bread, and salad. A glass of water stood in front of Castiel’s seat, but Dean’s cup was empty. Castiel opened his mouth to ask Dean what beverage he would prefer, but Dean spoke before Castiel could say anything.

“Dude, _whoa_ , “Dean commented.

Castiel stared at him blankly. “What?”

“This looks _good_.” He smiled impishly at Castiel. “Except the salad. _Really?_ Salad?”

“We all need a significant helping of fruits and vegetables, Dean,” Castiel admonished him. Dean grinned as if sharing a private joke with himself. “You can sit down. I didn’t know what you would like to drink . . . I’ve got orange juice, milk, and water.”

Dean looked as if he wanted to say something cheeky, but he gave a straight answer. “Water’ll be fine.”

“All right.” Castiel retrieved the water from the refrigerator and carried it to the table. He frowned when he saw that Dean was still standing up. “I told you you could sit down.”

Dean heeded his suggestion and watched Castiel pour water into his glass. “You don’t have to wait on me, y’know. I can get my own drinks and stuff.”

“Hmm. Yes,” Castiel mumbled.

After they’d both eaten a few bites, Dean exclaimed, “Dude, this is awesome! Some of the best food I’ve ever had. No lie.”

Castiel felt his face heat up. “Thank you,” he said awkwardly. He had never mastered the art of accepting compliments, so he changed the subject. “You said you didn’t have any money.” Dean nodded. “Do you need a job?”

“Probably,” Dean murmured. “I got fired last week.”

“Then you should get a job,” Castiel observed. He tensed when Dean’s features hardened; he hoped that he hadn’t sounded too directive.

“I guess. But there’s nothin’ I’m good at, and I’m not workin’ at Burger King again.”

“But you are good at something,” Castiel objected. Dean frowned at him. “Cars.”

Dean’s smile lit up his face. “Yeah. I am damn good with cars.” He glanced at Castiel nervously and cleared his throat. A part of Castiel felt like chiding Dean for using a curse word, but another part of him simply didn’t care. The latter realized that constantly correcting Dean would not be conducive to their burgeoning relationship, so he held his tongue.

“Then you should work at a garage,” Castiel suggested. “Have you ever done that?”

“Nope.” Dean seemed to notice the upcoming question in Castiel’s eyes, for he continued, “I don’t know why. It’s like . . . it’s my passion, and I dunno, I don’t want to be judged on it. Or something. Y’know?” Dean blushed as if he were afraid he’d said something incredibly stupid, but Castiel thought he understood. “But maybe I’ll try it out. Cas.” Dean added the nickname as if it were an afterthought, and for some reason he could not fathom, Castiel once again found it engendered a glow inside him.

xxxxxxxxxx

Castiel spent all evening distracting himself from his memories, an effort that had been surprisingly easy since he had Dean to talk to. But when bedtime came, there was nothing else to occupy him, and he had no choice but to be alone with his past. He closed his eyes and tried to wipe his mind clean, but to no avail.

He relived his worst memory, experiencing the moment as vividly as if he were still there.

He had been sixteen at the time, and Uriel, the leader of the Angelic Brethren, had demanded a personal meeting with him. Castiel remembered the swell of pride he’d felt at the time; to think, that Uriel wanted to speak with _him_ , of all people, alone. Lately, he’d been having doubts about the Brethren, but Uriel was always an inspiring figure. Perhaps the meeting would give him the burst of faith he needed.

He went to the compound’s main building and knocked timidly on Uriel’s office door. A voice inside urged him to enter. Castiel opened the door a sliver and shuffled inside, his eyes grazing the office as he did so. It was the first time he’d ever been in here. Nothing adorned the wooden walls, and two sparse wooden chairs reposed in front of Uriel’s desk, also wooden. Uriel’s chair was just like the other two.

Uriel gestured toward the chairs in front of him and indicated that Castiel should take a seat. He remembered marveling at how the room’s fluorescent lighting cast a shine on Uriel’s bald pate.

“I have received Revelation this morning,” Uriel announced. This was not unexpected. Uriel periodically “received Revelation.” He had direct access to God, and his communications with the Lord guided the Brethren. “And it relates to you.”

“Me?” Castiel’s reply came out in a small, strangled voice. Goosebumps pimpled his arms.

“Yes. And Balthazar.”

“Balthazar?” Balthazar was Castiel’s best friend, perhaps his only friend. He’d joined the Brethren two years ago, a runaway. No one knew his birth name; he’d shed it for his new one at the christening ceremony.

“He is dangerous to you, Castiel. He is corrupting you.” Balthazar had been recently expressing skepticism about the Brethren, but _dangerous_? Balthazar’s words had produced a few tiny cracks in his faith, but he still believed. He’d hoped that he could reason Balthazar out of his doubts concerning the Brethren.

As far as Castiel knew, Balthazar had told such thoughts only to him. How did Uriel know? It must have been the Revelation.

“I—” Castiel began, but he couldn’t persuade his mouth to say anything more.

“It’s all right, my child. You are innocent. We know.” _We?_ He must be referring to God. “But Balthazar, I’m sorry to say, is not. He must be damned.”

Damned. The damnation ceremony. It was reserved for the worst of traitors; it had never been performed in Castiel’s lifetime. It involved executing the individual and burning his remains.

“Damned?” Castiel whispered, his mouth dry.

“That’s right. And you, my child, must damn him. When you do, you will have reached the Next Level.”

The Next Level. Only an elite few ever reached the Next Level, and if Castiel were to achieve it at sixteen . . .

But no. Castiel didn’t want to, not if it meant damning Balthazar.

The words came tumbling out of his mouth as tears prickled his eyes. “He doesn’t have to be damned. He is good; I know it. We can help him.”

“No, my child. He is long past help. You must damn him.”

“But I don’t want to,” Castiel pleaded.

“Oftentimes serving the Lord isn’t easy. You must do the right thing. This is the way it must be.” He lowered his voice, his tone growing ominous. “And might I add, Castiel, that if you do not do this, you yourself will be damned. The Lord has spoken.”

The next morning, Castiel found himself on a field, Elders standing behind him, Elders restraining Balthazar in front of him. Uriel handed the angel-blade to Castiel and pressed his lips to his ear. “Do the right thing, Castiel.”

Castiel did the wrong thing.

With a shaky hand, he pointed the blade at Balthazar’s throat, cringing at the wounded shock in his friend’s eyes. He glanced at Uriel, who nodded at him to continue.

He dragged the blade downward until he reached Balthazar’s heart. “Damn you,” he hissed through clenched teeth, stabbing as he did so. A blow accompanied each pronunciation of the words. “Damn you.” _I’m sorry_. “Damn you _._ ” _I’m sorry_. “Damn you _._ ” Blood spilled onto his hands. “Damn you.” _I’m sorry_.

“Damn you!”

But this time he lay in his bedroom in the dark, no angel-blade in his hands. An unfamiliar man leaned against the doorjamb, his gaze burning Castiel’s skin.

 _Dean_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I appreciate all readers!


	4. Born Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.

“Damn you!”

The words rang in Dean’s ears.

A scream had awoken him, and after rubbing his eyes, he’d pinpointed its location: Castiel’s room.

He’d rushed to the bedroom, flicking on the hall light as he threw open the door. No one in there but Cas, who had grown silent. Dean had watched him for a moment, and Cas had begun thrashing in his sleep. Dean had been poised to wake him up from whatever nightmare he was having, but there had been no need.

Cas’s eyes had popped open, and he’d shouted those two words.

Dean shrank at them.

“Son of a bitch!” he muttered as his head crashed into the wall. He turned and rushed toward the living room, ignoring the pounding feet behind him.

To think, he’d actually started warming up to the fucker! Sure, he was a tad dense at times, taking everything too literally, but he’d also seemed genuinely concerned about Dean for some damn reason.

Turned out he’d been a fucking liar just like everyone he’d ever met.

He’d given the impression that he wasn’t judgmental. Non-judgmental my ass!

In his own room, in the dark, he’d voiced his real opinion about Dean.

“ _Damn you._ ”

In a half-waking state, when people couldn’t hide the truth.

No doubt the bastard thought he was going to hell since he kept rejecting offers to visit the damn church.

Dean began tossing his few belongings into the duffel bag, not deigning to look at Castiel, whose presence he could sense behind him.

“What are you doing?” the fucker asked him.

Dean slung the bag on his shoulder and turned to glare at the priest. “What the hell does it look like I’m doing?!”

“Please don’t leave, Dean,” the bastard whined.

“What the fuck did you expect?!” Dean growled. “‘Damn you’? I knew this whole thing was a frickin’ bad idea!”

“I didn’t mean _you_ , Dean,” the priest protested.

Dean spread his arms out in a dramatic gesture. “Then who the hell did you mean? Because I don’t see anyone else here.” The preacher just stared, something inscrutable in his lying blue eyes. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” Dean was about to take a step toward the door, but the priest blocked him.

“It was a dream,” the piece of shit claimed.

Dean narrowed his eyes at the idiot. “What? I wasn’t having any fucking dream.”

“No, _I_ was having a dream.”

“You expect me to believe that? Your eyes were open, you moron!”

“I—” The priest’s gaze grew resolute. “I wasn’t fully awake.”

“Whatever.” Dean eyed the door, and then the imbecile had the gall to grab his wrist.

“Stay. Please,” Castiel pleaded. Dean didn’t know what it was, but something in his expression made him soften. Just a tiny bit.

He yanked his hand out of the priest’s grasp. “ _Fine_. But you’ve got to stop friggin’ touchin’ me, dude.” He dropped his bag on the floor. “I’m gonna take a shower.” _Clear my head_.

xxxxxxxxxx

Dean stepped out of the shower and donned the black pants and shirt he’d slept in, absently toweling off his hair as he ambled out of the bathroom and into the living room. The towel slipped from his fingers at the sight of a trembling Castiel, who was huddled in the far corner of the couch.

“What’s the matter with you?” Dean asked.

“I—” Castiel’s eyes met Dean’s, but they seemed to be gazing somewhere else. “I killed him, Dean,” he whispered.

“What are you talking about?” God, the guy was a lunatic. And he’d just agreed, _again_ , to stay here. Well, he could always remind Castiel he’d said he would be at his house for only a short time.

“I killed him.”

“Listen, no one’s dead here.” This must be why the guy had been flailing in his sleep.  “It was just a dream.”

“No. I killed him.”

“Dude, it was just a dream.” But now Dean sounded less certain. He knew from personal experience that dreams often weren’t harmless little affairs.

Tears hung from Castiel’s lashes. “No. I really killed him.” The look in the priest’s eyes frightened Dean. He shivered inwardly. Perhaps he was telling the truth.

Nah. No frickin’ way. This guy, a killer?

Killers were people like John Winchester. Not that his dad had ever actually killed anyone, well, besides Vietnam, but Dean had always imagined that’s what killers were like.

Dean decided to play along for the moment. Perhaps it would get the man to calm down. He sat down on the other side of the couch and gazed at Castiel. “Who was it?”

“Balthazar.” Balthazar? Must be another cult member. “I damned him.”

Huh. So the guy had really been dreaming. Now Dean felt foolish about his earlier outburst.

Castiel’s next words came out so quickly that Dean strained to process them. “I’m a monster, Dean. You were right. You should leave.”

“What, like leave the room?”

“No, leave my house.” Oh. Seemed like Dean had experienced a Castiel-like misunderstanding.

And what the hell? One minute the guy’s begging him to stay, the next he’s imploring him to leave?

He studied Castiel. The man seemed so broken. Dean didn’t know what was up, but this guy certainly couldn’t be left alone.

“No, I’m not leaving,” Dean said softly.

“But I can’t stay,” Castiel declared. He whipped out a knife from a pocket of his gray pants and laid its tip on his knucklebone.

Dean lunged forward and grabbed the knife from him. “Dude, what the hell!”

Castiel squeezed his eyes shut as tears trickled down his cheeks. “I can’t live with this secret anymore.”

“Then tell me.” What the hell had just come out of his mouth?

Castiel’s eyes fluttered open. “What?”

“Get rid of the burden.” Dean lowered his voice to a whisper. “Tell me.”

“You’ll hate me, Dean.”

“I could never hate you, Cas.” Whoa, what had he just admitted to? Only when he spoke the words aloud did he understand they were true, and what, he’d known the guy for, like, two days? And what about his anger only an hour ago?

Then he realized—what he’d felt earlier had not been anger borne of hatred but anger borne of disappointment. Like he’d found someone he could maybe sort of trust, only to have it be a lie. Like always.

“We shall see,” Cas told him. “I really did kill someone, Dean. It was when I was with the Angelic Brethren.”

“That’s the cult?”

“Yes.” He paused. “You must hate me now.”

“Wait, I know there’s more to the story than that.” There was no way this weeping mess in front of him was a cold-blooded killer.

“That is the only part that matters.”

“So there is more. Tell me.”

“No.”

Dean slid closer to Cas. He stroked the man’s hand, scarcely aware of what he was doing. “Tell me.”

Cas smiled wanly. “All right.” He licked his lips. Dude needed some Chapstick. “Uriel made me—no, I made my own choice—he persuaded me to do it. To damn Balthazar.”

“Uriel? And who’s this dickweed?”

That comment actually elicited a small smile from Cas. “He was our leader. God talked to him. That is what he told us, anyway. I know better now. God does not talk to him. God talks to no one.” Wasn’t that kind of sacrilegious for a priest to say? “But he has the Brethren thinking otherwise.”

“ _Has?_ These weirdoes still exist?”

“Yes. Somewhere remote in Montana.”

“Okay, so this Uriel, he tells you to—”

“He said God had talked to him and told him I must damn Balthazar. ‘Damning’ is about killing the person. And Balthazar—he was my best friend.” Cas’s voice cracked. “I shouldn’t have done it,” he sobbed. “I should have let him damn me.”

“Damn _you_?”

“Yes,” Cas sobbed. “He said I had to be damned if I didn’t do it.”

“Christ.”

“I was only sixteen, Dean. How do you ask a sixteen-year-old to make a choice like that?”

“If you’re a bastard, that’s how.” Like John Winchester. When Dean was sixteen, on one night when his dad had been particularly violent and drunk, he had made him choose between shooting Sammy’s dog and torching his Impala. Dean hated dogs, but Sammy loved that golden retriever as much as Dean loved his Impala. He knew that Sammy would be heartbroken if anything happened to him.

Dean chose the dog.

Bastards.

“Not that I don’t take responsibility for my actions,” Cas continued.

“Fuck that. You’re not responsible.”

Dean knew he was responsible for Sammy’s dog.

But this was different. Cas had innocence written all over him. And Dean, well, Dean had been born splattered in guilt.

“I’ve never told anyone that before,” Cas breathed.

“Don’t worry,” Dean assured him. “I won’t tell anyone.” He wiped the tears from Cas’s cheeks, his fingers grazing the skin. When he was finished, he pulled back and smiled at Cas. “And I don’t hate you,” he said gently.

Cas glanced at the clock on the wall across from them. Dean’s eyes followed Cas’s; somehow, it was already eight a.m. “I must go to the church,” Cas declared.

“No,” Dean disagreed. “You’re going to call in sick. And rest.” To his surprise, Cas didn’t object. Dean stood up, wondering what had possessed him to get so close to Cas. He didn’t want Cas laying a finger on him, and here he had been, touching Cas almost _intimately_. What the hell?

Well, he was never doing _that_ again.

Dean retrieved the phone and handed it to Cas. “Call them,” he urged.

“What are you going to do?” Cas asked.

“Go job-hunting. And you are going to be here when I get back.” Cas grinned.

xxxxxxxxxx

Dean drove around town checking out the auto shops. No one seemed to be hiring, and he’d visited everywhere except Bobby Singer’s.

At Bobby’s, he spotted a billboard that announced job openings.

Bobby had offered him a job before, but he didn’t want to cause any complications for the man. He was friends with John Winchester. Bobby wasn’t familiar with how his dad had raised him and Sammy, and Dean didn’t want him to know. One of John’s few patches of happiness seemed to be his friendship with Bobby, and Dean didn’t want to take it from him. Even after everything John had put him and Sammy through, Dean still loved him. He understood that his dad had done the best he could after his mom’s death. What could you expect from a man who’d fought in the Vietnam War and probably dealt with post-traumatic stress disorder? Add to that Mom’s hellish death, and what would you get?

The few times John Winchester came to town, he visited Bobby Singer. He couldn’t stand going anywhere in town alone, so Bobby would accompany him on necessary errands. He’d never brought the boys to town; the one time he’d tried, he’d exploded with rage when they drove by their old house.

All Dean’s life, most of his dad’s rage had been directed at him. He had done as much as he could to protect Sammy from it.

Except he’d often failed miserably.

Dean avoided Bobby’s place because he was afraid of running into John Winchester. He hadn’t seen his father in two years, and he feared for his sanity if they ever met again.

Last time, John had called Dean and told him he had the flu and needed someone to look after him. Dean dropped everything to care for his dad, and for a while things had been all right. But when his dad had recovered, he’d returned to his old habits.

He’d spit on his son, swing whatever he could at him, his belt, slabs of wood. He’d pointed out his faults. “What sort of pathetic excuse for a son are you?!” “Sam went to college; Sam’s going to be a lawyer. What’ve you done with _yourself_ , huh?” “You’re nothing but a piece of shit, boy!” And the worst one: “Your mama would be so disappointed in you, boy!”

Like John, Dean turned to drink. It seemed as if they were competing to see which one of them could be the bigger non-functioning alcoholic.

One evening, when John had once again hurled that line about his mom, he’d thrown an empty beer bottle at his father.

John choked him while he kept gasping, “I’m sorry.” And he had been sorry; not because of his dad’s reaction but because he regretted hurting John.

Should he go in and talk to Bobby? His dad’s car wasn’t there, so he wouldn’t run into him.

He’d begun anticipating the idea of working at a garage. He knew Bobby would give him the job.

Oh, fuck it, he’d go see Bobby.

The bell tinkled when he opened the door. Bobby stood at the front desk, studying a few papers, looking the same as he had Dean’s whole life—baseball cap, brown beard. After jotting something down, Bobby looked up. “Dean!” he exclaimed, a smile blossoming.

“Hey, Bobby,” Dean said.

Bobby came out from behind the counter and threw his arms around Dean. “Good to see you, boy!” When he pulled back, he observed, “It’s been years since I last saw you.”

“Um. Yeah.”

“John’s doing good. If you care.” Bobby’s eyes contained a slight accusation.

Dean nodded. “Good. I’m glad.”

“Why don’t ya talk to your old man, anyway? He told me all about what happened. Can’t you just let bygones be bygones?”

“It’s complicated,” Dean answered gruffly. He had no idea what his dad had told Bobby, but no doubt it had been a lie. He wouldn’t be the one to disabuse Bobby of his illusions, however.

“Whatever you say. So, tell me, how’ve you been?”

“Good. I’m kind of . . . jobless, though.” Dean felt his cheeks turning red. “I saw your sign, and I was wondering . . . “

“Of course, Dean. I’d love to have you on board.” 

Dean let out a shaky breath. “Really?” Why was he in such disbelief when he’d been sure Bobby would hire him? 

“Yeah. You’re almost as good with this stuff as me.”

“Thank you.”

Bobby retrieved some forms from behind the desk. “Just fill these out, kiddo. You start tomorrow.” Dean couldn’t help but return Bobby’s grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I appreciate it!
> 
> This was quite an angsty chapter, I know, but there will be happier times ahead.


	5. God Is Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.
> 
> Warning: There is a little sacrilegious banter in this chapter at one point. Then again, the story's idea is a bit sacrilegious to begin with . . .

Castiel didn’t know what had possessed him; all he knew was somehow he’d gone mad.

And whatever spell Dean had cast had broken the madness’s spell.

What had he done? He’d just told a relative stranger his deepest, darkest secret. There were other things he’d done, terrible things, during the year he’d spent at the Next Level. He’d need to take better care to guard himself, not let those secrets spill out.

Could he trust Dean? He sensed the man’s goodness, but he didn’t really know him. Had Dean been telling the truth earlier, when he’d said he didn’t hate him? When he’d said Castiel wasn’t responsible?

Why would Dean feel that way? He’d been hostile toward Castiel for half the time he’d known him.

Castiel didn’t understand it, but something inside him instinctively trusted Dean. He was wary of it, but he felt it all the same. It whispered to him that Dean hadn’t lied, that Dean hadn’t judged him.

But if that were the case, Castiel didn’t deserve it.

So much sin and blood would always be on his hands, no matter what he did.

Even in the church, he was a fraud. He carried his darkness inside him, a darkness which he’d never confessed to. Every time he stood in St. Francis’s, he defiled it.

How could he have forgotten that?

Yet he knew he would do nothing about the matter. He’d continue going about his life, working in the church almost every day, playing the consummate hypocrite.

He didn’t deserve Dean’s kindness, and Dean didn’t deserve to bear Castiel’s secret.

He pressed the cold glass of water to his burning forehead. Burning with the anticipation of what he deserved: eternal hellfire.

Castiel was pulled out of his thoughts when he heard the front door open and then approaching footsteps. Dean entered the room.

He lowered the glass from his forehead and pressed it to his heated lips, sipping before he spoke. “Dean. You’re back.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Dean commented as he sank into the sofa’s opposite end.

“Who is Captain Obvious?” Castiel asked.

“What?” Dean laughed. “You can’t be serious?” He must’ve realized Castiel’s sincerity, for he continued, “Have you never stepped into the real world?”

Castiel frowned. “I’ve always lived in the real world.”

“Forget it. Someone needs to educate you, Cas.”

What was Dean talking about? He’d already been educated at the seminary.

It was of no import. He needed to apologize to Dean for his earlier behavior. “Dean, I . . . ” Castiel floundered. “I’m sorry.”

Dean wrinkled his forehead. “For what?”

“For this morning, when I—”

Dean waved a hand at him dismissively. “Forget it. Save the chick flick moment. It’s all good. Right?”  Castiel nodded. “Right. We’re good.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

Dean flashed a good-natured grin. “Didn’t I tell you to save it?”

“Hmm. Yes. Very well.” He paused. “Did you go job-hunting?”

“Yep.”

“And how did you fare?”

“I start at Bobby Singer’s tomorrow.”

Castiel broke into a smile. “That’s great.”

“Not that impressive when you think about it. He’s just doing me a favor because he knows my dad.”

“He knows your dad? Does he fight demons, too?”

Dean stared at him as if unsure of his meaning. He wondered if Dean thought he was joking, as he sometimes seemed to. He was wrong, of course; Castiel was always serious. He often didn’t understand humor, and he had never attempted to be humorous himself. Well, almost never, anyway.

“No. He doesn’t do that.” So Dean had settled on “serious.”

“We should celebrate,” Castiel decided.

“What?”

“Celebrate the good news.”

“Nah, it’s not really a big deal.”

“Of course it is. I think I should take you out to lunch.” Castiel found himself growing excited at the idea.

“Fine. Okay.” Castiel’s grin widened. “But I get to educate you while we’re out.”

Castiel retired to his room and threw on jeans and a blue long-sleeved plaid flannel shirt; then he returned to the living room. Dean stared at him. “What?” Castiel said.

“Almost didn’t recognize you there, padre.”

xxxxxxxxxx 

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Castiel asked. They had just parked at Rachel’s. “I don’t think Rachel likes you very much.”

“Yeah. Won’t the bitch be surprised when she sees us together?” Dean replied. They had never broached the topic of their first encounter, and this visit seemed to be the only way they would reference it, for neither of them now attempted to discuss that day’s events.

“She is not a bad person, Dean,” Castiel admonished him.

“Whatever you say, hoss.”

“Hoss?”

“Hoss. Okay. Consider this your first lesson. ‘Hoss’ means . . . hmm. I guess it’s just another way of saying ‘dude.’”

“'Dude.' You use that word a lot. So you are varying your vocabulary.”

“Sure. I guess you could say that.”

“What about ‘Captain Obvious’?”

“‘Captain Obvious' is something you say when someone’s stating the obvious.”

“As I did earlier.”

“Yeah. It’s teasing, in a good-natured sort of way.”

“You were making fun of me?”

“No. Maybe. But there’s a difference between ‘making fun of someone’ and ‘making _fun_ of someone.'” Castiel tilted his head. “Dude, I’m just confusing you, aren’t I?”

“Finish explaining what you mean. About ‘making fun of someone.’”

“Well, the first kind . . . it’s like, in a friendly sort of way. And the other kind, that’s when you’re being mean to someone.”

“And you meant the first kind?”

“Yep.”

Dean declared the lesson over, and they exited the Impala and went inside the diner. Once inside, Castiel scanned the restaurant until he spotted an empty booth. He scurried toward it, Dean following shortly thereafter. Castiel picked up his menu and studied it.

“I’m getting a burger,” Dean said.

“The burgers here are good,” Castiel conceded. “But I had one last week. I need to watch my diet.”

“Forget that. Live a little, Cas.”

Rachel approached the table, her eyes widening when she took them in. “What can I get for you?” she asked, her eyebrows raised.

“Two burgers,” Castiel answered. “And a glass of water.”

“Coke for me,” Dean put in.

“It’ll be right out,” Rachel said before heading toward the kitchen.

“Why’re you dressed like that, anyway?” Dean asked.

“Like what?”

“All casual. Don’t you have to put on your costume anytime you go in public?”

“It’s not a costume. And no, I don’t. I only wear it when I’m on duty.”

“Oh.” Dean cleared his throat. “Listen. I’ll pay you back when I get paid.”

“No. You don’t need to do that,” Castiel averred.

“Sure I do.”

“No,” Castiel insisted, his tone resolute.

Dean shrugged. “Whatever, padre. But in that case, I’m taking you out for drinks.”

“Taking me out for drinks?” Castiel repeated skeptically.

“Yeah. It’s when you go to a bar and order beer or—”

“I know what getting drinks means!” Castiel exclaimed.

“Okay, okay, don’t get so excited. I just wasn’t sure.”

“You are _not_ taking me out for drinks,” Castiel proclaimed.

“Why not?”

“I—” Castiel blushed. “I don’t drink.”

“Oh,” Dean sighed. “Of course you don’t. But you should.”

Castiel felt panic rising in his throat. “But, Dean. I’ve never . . . ” he blushed. “I’ve never had alcohol in my life.”

“Well, you should,” Dean scoffed. After a pause, he added, “But what about the Eucharist? Don’t you drink wine for that?”

“That’s not wine. That’s the blood of Christ.”

“Because _that_ sounds so much better.”

“It’s in remembrance of Christ.”

“You drink his blood to remember him. Doesn’t sound like a vampire at all.”

“Don’t be so sacrilegious, Dean,” reproached Castiel. But even though he was offended, he couldn’t stay mad at Dean.

“Here you go,” Rachel announced as she placed their burgers in front of them. Their drinks had arrived earlier, but Castiel didn’t notice their presence until now.

Dean bit into his burger. “Mmm,” Dean said as he chewed. “Tastes like I’m in fuckin’ heaven.” He grinned at Castiel mischievously. Castiel ignored his attention-seeking behavior and began eating.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” A voice broke in. Castiel looked up and watched as Father Raphael slipped into Dean’s side of the booth. Dean scooted over, clearly wanting to get as far away from Father Raphael as possible,

“Good afternoon, Father Raphael,” Castiel greeted him.

“Good afternoon, Father Castiel,” Father Raphael echoed him. “I thought you were sick. Playing hooky, are we?”

Castiel swallowed. “No. I really was ill this morning.” He blushed. “I still am. But I’m feeling a little better.”

“Oh. Imagine that,” he jeered. “And now you feel good enough to eat lunch with the dregs of society.”

Castiel eyed Dean sympathetically before gaping at Father Raphael. “You shouldn’t say things like that. He’s right there.”

Father Raphael glanced askance at Dean then looked back at Castiel. “So? Honesty is a virtue.” Castiel wanted to remind Father Raphael only God could judge, but his mouth was dry. Father Raphael always intimidated him. After a moment, Father Raphael stood up. “Well. I expect to see you at St. Francis’s tomorrow, Father Castiel.”

“You shall,” Castiel replied. Father Raphael left them and sat down at the counter.

“What a douchebag,” Dean opined.

“He’s my colleague, Dean,” Castiel responded, his voice disapproving.

“So? Doesn’t mean he can’t be a douchebag.” Castiel struggled to suppress a smile. “See? You agree.”

Castiel felt himself reddening again. “I suppose I do,” he admitted.

They finished their burgers, after which Rachel retrieved their empty plates. “Would either of you like pie?” she offered.

“Yeah. Apple pie would be good,” Dean answered. “What’re you getting, Cas?”

“I shouldn’t have any. I already had a burger.”

“Cas, a man should never turn down pie.”

Castiel sighed. “Okay. I’ll have pecan.”

“All-righty then,” Rachel said, her tone begrudging. It was clear from the way she’d been looking at Dean that she’d like nothing better than to throw him out of the diner. But she wouldn’t, not with Castiel there. She returned a moment later with the pie and the bill. After she dropped them off at the table, she stalked away. Castiel took a bite of pie and marveled at how delicious it was.

“See?” Dean said. “Pie. Awesome.” Castiel ate another bite, relishing the taste. “Oh, man, you’re having a foodgasm.”

“Foodgasm?”

“Lesson two: 'Foodgasm.' It’s like an orgasm, but with food. Like, you love the food so much that it feels almost as good as an orgasm.”

Dean seemed to enjoy making Castiel turn beet red.

xxxxxxxxxx 

That Sunday, it was Castiel’s turn to give the homily at St. Francis’s. 

He’d settled on a deceptively simple idea: God is love.

Oftentimes people seemed to forget that God’s greatest commandment was love.

He began his lesson by acknowledging how hokey the power of love sounded. Nevertheless, that did not negate its truth. Love could do so many things. Love was what inspired you to give, to care, to follow the right path. You love someone and don’t want to disappoint them. You love God and don’t want to disappoint Him. You love your friends and want to help them. You love humanity and want to help.

Love could save a despairing person, show them their worth.

Love kept people alive in your memories.

Love inspired you to make the world a better place.

Nothing felt better than being loved. It made you feel like you _mattered_.

Love could give you the strength to go on despite numerous obstacles. Go on striving for yourself, or go on striving for someone else.

And God offered love to everyone gratis. It did not matter who you were or what you’d done. Humans were His creations, each one a masterpiece. He’d created billions and billions of people over millennia, and no two of them were alike. You are like no one else. God knows everything about you, loves you for you.

And that’s a powerful thing.

There’s hope for everyone.

Love goodness, love virtue, and you’ll naturally aspire toward it.

Let love guide your actions, and everything will fall into place. You’ll make one segment of the world a better place, and with everyone working together, the world would become vibrant, radiating with goodness and love and . . .

And the divine, for God is love.

Castiel didn’t know what Father Raphael and Father Michael thought about his homily; they might not like that it ignored details.

But Castiel thought it was time to return to basics.

Afterward, Castiel spent time in fellowship with his congregation. He hoped his genuine interest shone through. Once the crowds thinned a little, Meg Masters approached him, as she did every Sunday. They engaged in small talk, and he didn’t understand why she kept offering him sloppy smiles and tossing her brown hair. When their conversation was finished, she left with an air of discouragement in her step.

“You should totally hit that, Father,” a voice behind him suggested. He turned around and smiled when he found himself facing Dean.

“Hit that?” Castiel ventured.

“Lesson number twelve: ‘hit that.’ You know. Take a tumble in the sheets. Do it. Go to bed with--.”

“Dean, I took a vow of celibacy!” Castiel cried.

Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “Just teasing, Cas. But whoever she is, she clearly wants it.”

“That makes no sense.”

“She was obviously checking you out.”

“Hmph.” In Castiel’s opinion, the subject couldn’t be changed soon enough. “I didn’t think you would come. What changed your mind?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t make a regular habit of it.” Dean shrugged. “I just thought I’d check out where you work.” Castiel’s smile widened. “It was a good talk, Father,” Dean continued. “I don’t believe in any of this stuff, or God, but you made me almost want to believe.” The earnestness in Dean’s eyes touched something in Castiel’s heart.

Dean probably expected him to be offended, but he wasn’t. Rather, he was deeply moved that Dean had been so honest with him, shared something—it wasn’t tangible, but Castiel could feel it—of his innermost self.

And if Dean didn’t believe, well, he could lead him toward the right path. Eventually.

But now—now, he had to accept Dean for everything he was, if he was going to help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're not sure why Dean went from "lesson two" to "lesson twelve," it's because a few days have elapsed between the visit at the diner and the church scene.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	6. Temptation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural _doesn't belong to me.__
> 
> More angsty times lie ahead . . .

Last night, Dean had had a shameful dream, and he couldn’t keep his mind from flashing back to it.

Castiel. Cas, supine, at his mercy. Cas as Dean planted his lips on his, little Mr. Goody-Goody Priest coming undone for him.

He didn’t even _like_ Cas like that. Or any man, for that matter.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

But Cas fascinated him, his body a weird mixture of masculine and feminine features. Delicate cheekbones, long eyelashes.  Lithe limbs that were surprisingly muscular.

Those adorable tentative small smiles.

Those blue eyes, so fucking hot when they got intense.

And when he’d worn the flannel shirt that brought out those eyes, so fucking _radiant_ they were almost blinding . . .

He probably just needed to get laid; it’d been a while since he’d had a good fuck. That’s what happened when you abstained from sex for too long: you started lusting after the most inappropriate things, like you were delirious and starved for anything to take away the hunger. He didn’t understand how Cas could manage living celibate.

Good thing he was going to the bar tonight. Friday nights were primetime for picking up babes.

Cas wasn’t that bad, for a priest. He treated Dean better than ninety percent of the people he’d ever met. Well, he couldn’t maintain the friendship for long; Dean would eventually fuck it up, as he always did. That’s why he never could have friends.

At least he could do Cas the favor of showing him a good time before he screwed things up.

Tonight would be awesome. He’d get Cas to try alcohol, and he’d get laid. After having a little fun, he’d cleanse his mind of whatever it was that’d given him last night’s dream.

He smiled so widely it almost hurt. Everything was going to work out.

“What’re you so happy about?” Bobby asked from behind him as he washed up.

Dean dried his hands and turned to face Bobby. “I’m taking my buddy Cas out for drinks tonight.”

“Cas? Who’s Cas?”

“Castiel Novak.”

“What kind of a name is that?”

Dean shrugged. “Who knows?” He figured it wasn’t his place to mention Cas had grown up in a cult; it seemed as if he’d told Dean only because Dean’s comment on that stormy night had caught him off-guard. “He’s a priest,” Dean added with a smirk.

“What? Where in the hell did you meet a priest?”

“Where do people meet priests?” Dean replied flippantly.

“At church?” Bobby answered skeptically.

Dean stretched. “Yeah. But not me.”

“Then where?”

“At a diner.”

“You met a priest at a diner, and now he’s your friend?”

“Uh-huh. Though I give you, it’s more complicated than that.” Dean couldn’t keep the amusement from creeping into his smile. “We’re roommates.”

“Huh. You’re roommates with a priest,” Bobby repeated in disbelief.

“Yeah. Do you wanna meet him? I’ll ask if we can invite you over sometime.”

“Sure?”

“Okay. I’ll ask Cas about it.”

“And this priest is letting you take him out for drinks?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I don’t know who I should be more worried about, you or him.” Dean grinned wickedly.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Castiel didn’t know how he’d let Dean convince him to go to the bar; he’d rather stay at home and read a book. Those places were surely rowdy on Friday nights, which didn’t help with his apprehension.

He heard Dean return home as he was changing into an outfit more appropriate for a bar—jeans, a white T-shirt, and a red button-up shirt to go over the T-shirt. Castiel had thought they would go right then, but Dean told him only losers went to the bar early on Friday nights. So, they ate dinner and watched a little TV for a couple of hours, and around eight o’clock, Dean announced it was time to go. They both knew Dean would be drinking more than Castiel, so Castiel drove. Dean guided him, and soon they entered what Father Raphael would term the seedy part of town. They passed by Bobby Singer’s auto shop, and after a couple of blocks, they arrived at a place called Harvelle’s Roadhouse, a wooden structure whose parking lot was packed with cars. A few bikers loitered near the entrance.

“This is it?” Castiel ventured.

“Yep,” Dean replied. He gestured toward it with a flourish. “Welcome to my home away from home.” He looked abashed. “Well, you know what I mean. I guess I don’t have a home now . . .”

“My home is your home,” Castiel avowed.

“That’s nice of you to say, Cas, but um, not really . . . ” Castiel understood Dean’s meaning, but just because his stay at Castiel’s house was temporary didn’t mean it couldn’t be his home. He wanted Dean to feel at home there, and the fact that he couldn’t saddened Castiel.

A moment later, Dean cleared his throat. “Let’s go.” With trepidation, Castiel followed Dean inside. Dean found them two spots at the crowded bar. After a minute, a young woman with blonde hair, skin-tight jeans, and a tank-top approached them from behind.

“Dean,” she said. “Haven’t seen you in a while.” She glanced at Castiel. “Who’s your cute friend?” Castiel blushed.

“This is Castiel.” Dean’s eyes darted between the two of them. “Castiel, this is Jo, the hottest piece of ass in town.” Dean groped her butt.

Jo smacked his hand away. “Keep dreamin’, pal. What can I get for ya?”

“How ‘bout bartender’s choice?” Dean winked. “But nothing too strong for Cas here. He’s a priest, y’know. Can’t go corrupting him, now, can we?”

Jo quirked an eyebrow. “You’re serious?”

“I am a priest indeed,” Castiel confirmed.

“He talks,” Jo commented, her gaze focused on Castiel.

“Of course I talk,” a puzzled Castiel responded.

She turned back to Dean. “Strange, isn’t he?” She looked at Castiel again and patted him on the shoulder. “I like you.” She broke into a roguish grin. “We’ll see what we can do to corrupt you.” She retreated behind the bar and pulled a bottle down from the top shelf, grabbed a couple of shot glasses, and filled them almost to the brim. She shoved them toward the two men and urged, “Bottoms up, boys!”

Castiel stared in disbelief as Dean downed his glass in one gulp. “Ah. Good stuff. How ‘bout another, Jo?” While Jo filled his glass, he turned to Castiel. “Go on. Try it.”

“What is it?” Castiel inquired.

“Whiskey.”

Castiel took a sip then slammed the glass onto the counter when he felt the burn in his throat. A coughing fit ensued.

“Good, huh?” Dean said. “C’mon, you gotta finish that.” Castiel would hardly call how he felt “good,” but he drank once again, this time bracing himself for what was coming. He found the burn less unpleasant, and he actually welcomed the warmth in his stomach. Dean downed another shot and indicated to Jo he’d like yet another.

“Should you be drinking them so fast?” Castiel asked.

Dean shrugged. “Why not?”

“You’re going to be very drunk,” Castiel pointed out.

“That’s the idea, pal,” Dean laughed. He downed the third shot then asked Jo to bring him a beer. There was something unsettling in Dean’s eyes, as if he weren’t totally present. Castiel didn’t know what to make of it; no doubt the alcohol played a part.

Castiel continued to sip his whiskey, and when he eventually finished, he settled on a beer. Meanwhile, Dean had been drinking so quickly that he had drained his second beer by the time Castiel started his first. He drank as if he were a man who’d just come from the desert and found an unending supply of water.

“How're you likin’ it, preacher?” Dean asked, an edge to his voice.

 “It’s—it’s an experience,” he replied nervously.

“There’s nothing alcohol can’t fix,” Dean declared as he placed a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. He eyed something behind Castiel, beyond him, and Castiel turned to see what it was. On the other side of the bar, an attractive woman nursed a beer alone. “Check it out,” Dean slurred, his breath hot in Castiel’s ear. “I think she could use a little company.” And just like that, Dean was gone, lingering by the woman, leering at her so obviously that Castiel could read lust in his every movement.

Castiel sighed. Father Raphael had warned him Dean was a drunk, but Castiel hadn’t believed him, not until now. But this picture of Dean . . . it didn’t fit with what he’d known of him so far, not the warmth, the earnestness, the _goodness_ he’d seen in him. It was like Dean had become a totally different person, hard and cold, stalking that poor woman as if she were his prey. The only thing these two versions of Dean had in common was the despair hidden underneath.

Jo’s voice cut into his thoughts. “He abandoned you, huh?”

Castiel rubbed his thumb on the neck of the beer bottle and said, with a grim smile, “It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not. What a jackass.” She glared in Dean’s direction. “And a pig.” She stepped away to attend to a customer.

If this was all he knew of Dean, the behavior here and now, he might be inclined to agree with Jo. Of course, then he’d remind himself he shouldn’t judge, but he’d still be repulsed by Dean.

But there was another part of Dean beneath the surface, one Castiel believed to be more authentic. And in this moment, it seemed almost as if Dean were trying to bury it. Why?

“So you’re Castiel,” an unfamiliar voice said. He looked up and found himself facing a brunette who appeared to be in her mid-forties. She extended a hand. “I’m Ellen. I run this hell house.”

She had a firm handshake. “Nice to meet you, Ellen,” Castiel replied. 

“Jo’s my daughter. She tells me you came with Dean?”

“Yes.”

Ellen glanced at Dean. “Huh. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you guys are like _The Odd Couple_.” Castiel blushed. “Jo also said you were a priest?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Father, you sure have interesting taste in friends. See ya around.”

After Ellen left, someone tapped him on the shoulder. When he turned around, Castiel was facing Dean, who had an arm slung around the girl he’d been talking to. “I’m taking off, dude,” Dean said. “Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be at Casey’s.” The woman giggled.

“Okay,” Castiel replied, but Dean had already departed without waiting for an answer. He decided to have Jo bring him another beer.

“What’re you doing here, Father?” a female voice asked him. He recognized that voice: Meg Masters. She was sitting to his left; he didn’t know how long she’d been there.

Castiel reddened again. “I felt like having a drink.”

Meg licked her lips. “Naughty.”

“Priests _are_ allowed to drink.” Castiel surveyed the bar and didn’t see any of Meg’s acquaintances, not even Ruby. “Where’s your friend?” he asked.

“Who, Ruby?” Castiel nodded. She rolled her eyes. “She left with some guy. Again. What about your friend?”

“What friend?”

“That guy you were here with earlier. The same one you were talking to in church on Sunday.”

“Oh. Dean.” He paused. “He left with some woman.”

“Looks like we’re stuck in the same spot, Father.” There was something off about her smile. She took a swig of her beer. “You don’t mind if I join you?”

“Not at all.” Hadn’t she already joined him by sitting next to him?

“So how do you know this ‘Dean’?”

Castiel bit his lip; he didn’t want to explain the entire story to Meg. “It’s complicated.”

“Don’t want to tell me? I can respect that.” She placed a hand on his thigh, which he deliberately ignored, finishing his beer instead. After he paid Jo, he stood up. Meg followed suit. “You’re leaving?” she asked. He nodded. “Can I come with you?”

“Okay,” he answered, his tone unsure. Did she want a ride home?

Once they’d reached his car, Meg pinned him against the driver’s side door. “Well, here we are, Father,” she breathed.

“Yes.” Castiel straightened up, but she kept her hands on him. She leaned in and planted her lips on his, her tongue attempting to invade his mouth. He resolutely kept it closed and pulled his lips away from hers. “Meg—”

She raised her eyebrows in a lascivious fashion. “C’mon, you know you want it.” She kissed him again.

And again, he drew his lips away from hers. “Meg, I can’t—” he gasped. 

“Shut up.” She leaned in again, but this time he shoved her away, the force of it more than he intended. She stumbled backward and fell, her head hitting the ground.

“Meg!” he exclaimed as she clambered to her feet and rubbed her head. “I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

“Fuck off, Father!” she screeched before dashing off.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Castiel awoke at seven a.m. and ambled into the kitchen. Just a few weeks ago, he would’ve found this time late, but ever since Dean had moved in with him, he’d been going to work later and leaving it earlier. Before he scrambled some eggs for breakfast, he glanced into the living room; the couch was empty. So, Dean still hadn’t come home yet.

Well, he had to continue with his routine; he needed to be at St. Francis’s soon. He ate his eggs and changed into his black long-sleeved shirt and pants, adding on the collar. Since he liked to walk to the church, he left his cassock in his office, putting it on once he arrived. It was rather cumbersome to wear during a mile-long hike.

When he thought of Dean, he felt a knot in his stomach, and not just because of the distastefulness of his behavior last night. When he’d left him for that woman, a sliver of disappointment had struck him. Not disappointment in his character, exactly, but he didn’t know what else it could be.

Castiel delayed his departure as long as possible. Just as he was about to move toward the front door, he froze in the middle of the kitchen when he heard someone unlocking it. A minute later, Dean staggered in, a brown bag in his hand.

“Hello, Dean,” he said, but Dean ignored him and pulled a bottle of vodka out of the bag, which he unceremoniously tossed on the floor. He pried the cap open with a bottle opener on his keychain and took a swig.

It was obvious he’d been drinking too much. And he was _still_ drinking.

“Dean, I don’t think that’s a good idea . . . ” Castiel said softly.

Dean glared at him as he took another drink. “Fuck off, Cas,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

Castiel placed his hand on the bottle. “Dean, I’m worried—” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper.

Dean snatched the bottle out of his grasp and slammed it on the countertop. “Didn’t I tell you,” he interrupted, his tone threatening, “to fuck off?”

“Dean, I—”

Before he could process what was happening, Dean had grabbed his wrists and swung him around, shoving him against the cabinet drawers next to the oven. Dean held Castiel so tightly he couldn’t move, squeezing his wrists so hard they burned. A drawer handle pressed into the small of his back, and it felt almost as if it was stabbing him. “Leave. Me. Alone,” Dean warned, his breath brushing Castiel’s skin. It reeked of alcohol. His eyes were so glazed and _empty_.

In this moment, Castiel was frightened of him.

Dean released him and picked up the bottle of vodka. Castiel listened as Dean left the room, an audible click informing him Dean had locked himself in one of the bedrooms. After a second, Castiel ventured into the hallway to see which room Dean had gone into. Not his, but the spare bedroom.

Castiel returned to the kitchen and rolled up his sleeves so he could examine his wrists. Two bruises were already forming, one encircling each wrist. He rolled his sleeves back down and grabbed the phone.

He needed to inform his colleagues he wouldn’t be coming in today. He wouldn’t call in sick; rather, he’d tell them he needed to stay home and care for Dean. For he was sick, in a way. If Father Raphael had a problem with that, he could get over it. He and Father Michael took days off all the time, and Castiel rarely ever did.

Dean would eventually emerge from the haze consuming him, and when he did, Castiel would be there to help.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Dean rushed into Castiel’s other bedroom and locked the door. Nothing in here but a desk, a chair, a mirror hanging on the wall, and a few boxes. Dean sat down on the chair and gulped down more vodka while his eyes watered.

Fucking hell. After last night’s exploits, he felt much better; he felt much worse.

There was a hollowness consuming him, a hollowness that’d been exacerbated by every drink he took, every thrust as he fucked that woman—Casey?—last night.

But every drink, every thrust, had also filled him to bursting.  

Every tear that fell made him want to smash something.

He knew he was cracking on the inside, and he knew he deserved it.

_Fucking break me already!_

Why hadn’t John Winchester done it when he had the chance? It’d been almost as if he relished bringing Dean up just short of his breaking point.

Unbidden, memories seared him. If only they would just shut the fuck up!

His mother’s death, the fire—the fire he knew he was responsible for. He didn’t remember how, but his dad had reminded him of his culpability enough damn times.

He remembered holding Sam, being entranced by the purity of the flame. Wishing with everything he had that his mother would materialize.

He had very few memories of his mother, but in the ones he did have, she was always a beacon of light and love.

A love he’d never been good enough to receive. He gave his dad and Sam all the love he had, but they didn’t return it in kind. Because they both knew he was inexcusably defective.

Dad began hitting him soon after Mom’s death. At first, it wasn’t so bad, just a mild slap here and there. But the force grew with time.

Dean had been willing to take it, even welcomed it. Whatever it took to make his dad feel better.

But he had _not_ been willing to let it spread to Sam.

Sam was six when Dean first saw it occur. It just so happened that Sam was closer to John’s reach. In his memory, it was a photograph: the red mark on Sam’s face, the hurt, the disbelieving and shocked eyes.

After that, whenever he could, Dean made sure that Sam stayed farther away from his dad than Dean himself. If John needed to lash out, Dean should be the target.

When he failed to shield Sam, he knew he was a worthless shit.

Then when he grew older, Sam blamed Dean for letting John take out his frustrations on his eldest son. Sam thought Dad attacked him less because he stood up to his father. Dean let him believe the lie, because it was best for Sam.

“Why don’t you fight back?” Sam would ask. _Because Dad needs_ _this_.

“Why don’t you show Dad he can’t get away with doing that to you?” _Because it would be useless. Because he can._

“You’re twenty, Dean. Why don’t you just move out?” _Because then he would hurt you._

“Why do you defend him when I bring it up?” _Because I love him_.

Their dad could be a fucking _monster_ , yet he loved him.

He was freakin’ screwed up. What more proof did you need?

Cas . . .

Cas knew the truth now. He knew he was a piece of shit, that he was a violent bastard. Like his father.

He’d put a knife in whatever potential friendship could’ve formed there.

The freakin’ _terror_ in his eyes when Dean had manhandled him . . .

What was it with that bastard’s eyes? Why did they keep haunting him?

He’d had to restrain himself from doing more damage, from acting on the urge to destroy that innocence.

All he could ever do was break, break, break. Break others. Break himself.

 _He_ was the monster. At least his dad had the grace to confine his urges to (mostly) Dean.

His eye alit on his reflection in the mirror on the wall. “Fucking useless bastard!” he shouted at himself. He hurled the bottle, still at least half-full, at himself, shattering the mirror, staining the carpet with glass shards and vodka droplets.

He collapsed to the floor with a moan and crawled toward the mess he’d made. What an asshole—this was how he thanked someone for their hospitality? He picked up a fragment from the mirror and briefly contemplated slitting his wrists with it. Instead, he tightly wrapped his hand around it.

It was time to apologize to Cas and tell him he was leaving.

He fumbled with the doorknob and stumbled into the living room, where Cas was seated on the couch. He flipped off the TV as Dean approached. Dean staggered toward Cas, eventually falling to his knees. He strengthened his grip on the glass.

“I’m sorry,” he slurred, tears staining his cheeks, his chin, defiling his entire being. “I’m sorry,” he gasped out.

Cas remained silent and reached for Dean’s fist. He pried Dean’s fingers open gently, one by one, and removed the glass from his hand. A diagonal cut spanned the breadth of Dean’s hand, blood oozing from it. “Oh, Dean,” he breathed, his voice full of compassion. He ripped off his ecclesiastical collar and used it to wrap Dean’s hand.

“I’ll go; I’m sorry,” Dean wept.

“Shhh,” Cas said as he cradled Dean’s head in his lap. “It’s all right, my child,” he soothed, stroking Dean’s hair as his tears coated the bottom of Cas’s shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I appreciate every reader!


	7. All Hallows' Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.

Dean didn’t see much of Cas during Sunday. He couldn’t blame the guy for not wanting to talk to him after what he’d done; he was probably waiting for Dean to move out already.

On Monday morning, he poured himself a bowl of cereal and took a tentative seat at the table across from Cas, carefully avoiding any eye contact with the man. As he took his first bite, he noticed Cas’s wrists because he rolled up his sleeves every time he ate. Telling his nerves to shut the fuck up, he reached across the table and traced the bruise on one of Cas’s wrists. He raised his gaze to Cas’s face but still didn’t look him in the eye. “I did this, didn’t I.” It was a simple statement, but there was a slight tinge of a question about it.

“It is of no import,” Cas replied.

“Of course it’s of fucking import,” Dean said, his voice more heated than he intended. Cas was lying; that was why he kept staring down at his plate.

“No, Dean.” Cas looked up, and he wouldn’t let Dean’s eyes evade his. “Everything’s fine.”

“The hell it is.” Dean dropped his spoon in his bowl and leaned back. “I’ll get out of your hair soon. I’ve got a little money now, maybe enough for an apartment, or one of those extended-stay places, or something . . . ”

“You don’t have to go,” Cas opined.

“Of course I do. Especially after . . . you know. Besides, I said I’d stay for only a couple of days. It’s been what, almost two weeks?”

“So?”

“I’ve imposed on you long enough.”

“You’re not imposing on me, Dean.”

What was it with this guy? He carried his generosity to the point of ridiculousness. “That’s nice of you to say, and I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me, I really am . . . ” Why had he taken Cas up on his offer in the first place? It was charity, and he didn’t need any of that. He should stand on his own two feet. “But you’ve done enough already.”

An uncomfortable silence ensued, neither of them eating, both of them gazing at each other. Finally, Cas broke the spell. “What if,” he ventured, his tone cautious, as if he were afraid of scaring off a deer, “I told you that I wanted you to stay.”

“What?” Dean gasped. That was the last thing he’d expected to hear from Cas.

“Well, I do,” Cas continued. “I want you to stay.”

Dean pondered Cas’s words for a minute. “Why?”

“I like having you here.”

“Even after what I did?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Cas shrugged. “I didn’t realize how lonely I was until . . . our arrangement. It’s nice to have someone to talk to outside of the church.”

Cas’s tone was so heartfelt it almost stung. “I shouldn’t stay,” Dean responded, with little conviction.

“Please do,” Cas urged.

“All right,” Dean sighed, his breath shaky.

Cas broke into a huge grin. The guy must have something wrong with him if he wanted Dean around after the weekend’s incident, but if he was willing to accept Dean after what’d happened, why not let him?

“Thank you,” Cas said.

Dean didn’t realize his hand was still on Cas’s wrist until Cas squeezed it. This time, he didn’t snatch it away.

xxxxxxxxxx 

During his walk to St.Francis’s, Castiel reflected on the morning’s conversation with Dean. He hadn’t known how much he enjoyed Dean’s company before then. He didn’t have any friends, not really. At the church, he talked to Father Raphael and Father Michael, but they weren’t his friends. He spoke with his parishioners often, and he liked them, but they weren’t his friends, either. It was all part of his job.

Was Dean his friend?

Or was he lying to himself? They hadn’t known each other that long, after all. And Dean often pulled away, as if he feared having more than a surface relationship with Castiel.

Balthazar had been Castiel’s last, and only, friend. After Balthazar, he had vowed not to let himself get close to anyone. It was his penance for what he’d done to Balthazar, but more importantly, it was a way of ensuring he didn’t hurt anyone again.

So, why Dean Winchester, and why now?

He hadn’t meant for it to happen. He had just been trying to help Dean, as was his Christian duty. As his conscience had dictated.

And now he selfishly wanted Dean around just for the sake of having him around.

Maybe he should’ve let Dean leave, but his very being rebelled at the notion. He didn’t understand it.

Well, as the weekend’s exploits had shown, Dean still needed plenty of help. A healing of the soul. And Castiel could provide it, if he played matters right.

As usual, when he arrived at St. Francis’s, he met Father Raphael and Father Michael for coffee. They abruptly ceased whatever conversation they were having when Castiel entered the room. As Castiel sat down at the table, they eyed each other.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with that wayward orphan of yours,” Father Michael commented.

Castiel smiled hesitantly. “Yes, I suppose I have.”

“Why have you taken such an interest in him?”

Castiel shrugged and continued smiling. “I like him, I suppose.” Father Raphael scoffed. Castiel ignored him. “And I think I can help him.”

“I don’t understand,” Father Raphael said. “Why him, of all people?”

“I don’t know. Why question what God puts in front of us?”

Father Raphael snorted. “You really think God wants you to help _Dean Winchester?!”_

“Yes. I do.” How else did one explain their initial meetings, as if planned by an agency outside of human control?

“You’re young, so I can excuse your idealism. I understand. I went through that phase, too. But believe me when I say some people are beyond help. Dean Winchester is one of those people. I speak from experience, son. It’s not something we like to think, but it’s true.”

“Son”? Why did Father Raphael act as if Castiel were a child? “But I don’t think it is true,” he objected. “And even if it were . . . I don’t think Dean Winchester is past saving.” On the other hand, Castiel might be. What would Father Raphael and Father Michael think if he told them the truth about himself? Revealed everything from when he was with the Angelic Brethren?

Could someone as tainted as himself even help someone else?

Castiel thought so. Or hoped so, at least. Just because he was damned didn’t mean he couldn’t save others from the same fate.

It seemed as if Father Raphael’s grin mocked him. “I guess you’ll have to find out the hard way, then.”

“Why do you have such faith in Dean Winchester?” Father Michael inquired.

“It’s just—it’s a feeling I have.”

Father Michael fingered his chin as he thought. “Father Castiel,” he said. “I know that we represent God here on earth; maybe we even talk to Him sometimes. But if you think God is telling you to help one man, and a man like Dean Winchester, I may add, I worry . . . it sounds absurd. That’s not how it works.”

“God isn’t telling me to do it,” Castiel responded.

“But you just told Father Raphael He was.”

How could he explain what he meant? It was an intuition. God wasn’t telling him to help Dean, per se, but He was placing Castiel in the situation to make a choice, and assisting Dean was the right one. That was how God operated, not by talking to them. He explained this theory as best he could, minus the part about God speaking to no one.

“I see,” Father Michael replied skeptically. “Well, it’s your life. Just make sure your little project doesn’t cause you to be remiss in your duties.”

“It won’t,” Castiel vowed. Why did Father Michael even feel the need to give him such a warning? It wasn’t as if Castiel had been neglecting his duties. Yesterday, he’d come in early and left late so he could complete both Saturday’s and Sunday’s tasks.

After coffee, Castiel retreated to his office. He needed to put the finishing touches on the plans for this weekend’s Fall Festival. He read the Post-It note someone had left on his desk; apparently Meg and Ruby had backed out of volunteering. Castiel sighed. Dean had been right about Meg’s feelings, and now he was going lose two volunteers. Where would he find replacements at the last minute? If necessary, one could do in a pinch.

Oh, there was an idea. What if he asked Dean . . . maybe it would make Dean feel less like he was imposing on Castiel. 

Yes, he would ask Dean.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Castiel didn’t feel like cooking, so he picked up some food for supper on his way home. “Dean, I’ve got dinner,” he called once he was inside the kitchen. He deposited the items on the table, and when Dean came into the kitchen, he frowned down at them.

“Really, Cas? Subway?” Dean grumbled. Castiel sensed the uncertainty in Dean’s teasing, as if he were unsure whether or not it was permissible to return to the former status quo.

“There aren’t that many places between here and St. Francis’s,” Castiel pointed out as he sat down at the table. Dean followed his lead a second later. Castiel shoved one of the packaged sandwiches across the table. “Here. I got them to put plenty of meat in yours.” He offered Dean a small smile.

Dean unwrapped his sandwich and took a bite. “Not bad.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Listen. I can’t just keep mooching off of you.—”

“Mooching?”

“Y’know. Freeloading. I need to pay my own way. Rent.—”

“I don’t want you to pay me rent,” Castiel said. “I told you this morning. I like having you around.” Dean gaped at him. “Besides, why pay rent to sleep on a couch? Normally, you get a bed, your own room.—”

“Touché. But I should pay for my own food at least. How much do I owe ya for the sandwich?”

“Nothing.—”

“Then I’m going to give you twenty dollars.” Dean reached to the back of his jeans for his wallet.

“No. Okay.” He told Dean how much he’d spent on the sandwich, and then they made arrangements about how much money Dean would give Castiel each week for food. Afterward, Dean seemed to have brightened.

“I do have a favor to ask you, Dean,” Castiel declared a few minutes later.

“Shoot,” Dean replied, his mouth full.

Castiel reddened, suddenly consumed with embarrassment. He stammered, “Well, this weekend—there’s a Halloween carnival—well, not really a Halloween carnival, but a Fall Festival, as we call things these days, and, and I’m in charge of it every year, because my colleagues don’t want any part of it, and I just discovered we’re short of volunteers, and, and—would you mind helping out?”

“What, are the old farts out there too good for that sort of thing?” Dean replied.

Castiel guffawed. Through his mirth, he managed to gasp out, “I really shouldn’t laugh.”

Dean grinned and laughed a little himself. “You should.” Once Castiel’s fit of giggles exhausted itself, Dean groused, “Would I have to wear a costume?” The sparkle in his eye belied his tone; Dean secretly wanted to dress up, and it was cute.

“Yes,” Castiel responded. “All of the volunteers are supposed to wear a costume.”

“How ’bout you? You wearin’ a costume?”

“No. I’ll be there as just myself, supervising.”

“Lame.”

“Will you do it?”

“You said this weekend?” Castiel nodded. “When this weekend?”

“Saturday evening.”

“Hmm. All right. I guess.”

xxxxxxxxxx 

“Dean,” Cas shouted, his voice wafting from the kitchen to the bathroom, where Dean had gone to change into his costume. “Are you ready yet? We need to go.”

“Coming, Cas,” Dean yelled back. After glancing at himself in the mirror and adjusting his hat, he strolled into the kitchen, where Cas stared at him with wide eyes. “Whaddaya think?”

“You’re a cowboy,” Cas observed.

“Yep.” Dean beamed. He knew he looked _damn awesome._ Brown leather cowboy boots, spurs, jeans, tan chaps, brown leather holster, red plaid shirt, tan leather vest, and of course, his light brown Stetson. The bandage on his hand only added to the effect. “Do I look good or what?”

“It suits you,” Cas agreed with a smile.

“Let’s take the Impala,” Dean suggested. “I—we’ll look badass when we roll up to St. Francis’s.”

Cas’s smile grew bigger, and he bit his lip. “Okay.”

When they arrived at St. Francis’s, Cas lead Dean to the church’s event hall, which Cas and a few volunteers had decorated earlier. Activity and concessions booths were set up all throughout the expansive space, and a few volunteers milled by the information booth. The carnival would open up for business in thirty minutes. Silver, black, and orange streamers festooned the walls and hung from the ceiling. Pictures of black cats, pumpkins, witches, and ghosts also adorned the walls.

Cas approached the gathered volunteers and announced that he was about to give everyone their assignments. Some soccer-mom woman named Mrs. King, dressed as a witch, was assisting with task delegation, and Cas stated that if anyone had a question and couldn’t find him, they should find Mrs. King. Cas went down the list and asked each person where they’d like to chip in. Dean was last on that list, and there was only one task left. 

“Seriously? You want me to do _face painting_?” Dean complained.

“That’s where we need you,” Cas affirmed.

“I can’t paint worth shit!”

“Watch your language, Dean. There are going to be children here.”

“Whatever. Where do I go?” Cas gave him directions to the face painting booth, and Dean headed over there, where he joined two cute women in their mid-thirties, both wearing nurse costumes. Not sexy nurse costumes, unfortunately. He smiled at them, but they eyed him as if he were an intruder. Which he supposed he was, since he didn’t attend the church.

When the festival opened its doors, a gaggle of little girls and boys lined up at the face-painting booth. Dean held his breath and reminded himself not to panic. A blonde girl in a fairy costume sat down in the chair beside him, her mom, a grown-up fairy, looming over them. “What’s your name, sweetie?” Dean asked. God, had he just said “sweetie”? The mom watched him, mistrust etching her face. 

“Kaylee!” the girl squealed.

“Well, Kaylee, I’m Dean,” he replied, hoping he sounded friendly and not at all like a shady character. He picked up the sheet which contained potential designs and held it up to her. “Which one do you like?”

“That one!” she exclaimed, her finger on an illustration of an angel.

God. Could he draw that?

His kept the smile plastered on his face. “Okay.” He grabbed the paintbrush and examined the colors available. His hand shook as he worked. When he noticed that the women had already seen three kids each and he wasn’t even close to being done, he held in a sigh of frustration. He’d known this was a bad idea. He kept screwing up, and the end result looked less like an angel and more like a blob of an indeterminate insect. With trepidation, he allowed Kaylee to look in the mirror. She screamed at what she saw.

“Mommy!” she screeched with tears in her eyes. “He messed up my angel!”

She embraced her daughter. “It’s okay, honey,” she soothed while glaring at Dean over Kaylee’s shoulder. They scurried away, and someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around and found himself facing Mrs. King’s stern gaze.

“You’re not working this booth anymore,” she declared in a fussy voice. Dean did his best to look apologetic. “There’ll be a vacancy at the cakewalk in fifteen minutes,” she explained. “You’re to go over there and call out the numbers.” She had a look on her face that said, _even an imbecile like you should be able to handle that_.

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered as he stood up. How was he going to occupy himself for fifteen minutes? Maybe he’d grab some grub. He walked around the festival, examining the options for food. He stopped by a dunking booth and was shocked when he discovered Cas, complete with cassock, sitting in the seat. Dean waited for the boy in front of him, who was dressed as Batman, to finish throwing his balls before saying anything. When he left in disappointment, Dean said, “Seriously? _You’re_ in there, Cas?”

Cas shrugged, his grin sheepish. “I have found people think it is fun to dunk the priest.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean dropped some coins in the bucket on the small table by the booth and retrieved a couple of balls. “You’ll get dunked all right.” He narrowly missed the target with the first ball, but he hit it on the second toss. Cas fell into the water and came up spluttering for air. People nearby buzzed with excitement. “Gotcha,” Dean chortled as Cas’s eyes alit on him. Sopping wet, Cas stumbled out of the booth and grabbed a nearby towel, which he used to dry his face and hair. Flecks of moisture still adhered to his hair, his forehead, and the effect was, Dean admitted, endearing. Just a bit. 

Cas split into a grin which migrated to his eyes. “Yes, you did, cowboy.” It was a misguided attempt at humor, his tone a little too gruff to carry off the sentiment, but Dean appreciated the effort nevertheless. “What are you doing over here, anyway?” Cas inquired. “You should be at face painting.”

“Nah. I told you I couldn’t paint. Mrs. King got mad at me.”

Cas giggled. “I imagine she would. She can have quite the temper.” Cas’s amusement prompted Dean to wonder whether he’d been set up.

Dean glanced at his watch. “Well, I’ve gotta a cakewalk to get to. See ya around.”

“See you around,” Cas echoed softly.

While strolling toward the cakewalk, Dean felt a strange warmth settle into the pit of his stomach. It had something to do with Cas, he knew. He also knew he didn’t deserve its rosiness, whatever it was, but he’d treasure it while he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! To those of you who've left kudos, commented, and bookmarked, thank you very much! I appreciate the encouragement!


	8. Render unto Caesar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.

Castiel finished preparing dinner as Dean lounged on the couch and watched TV. Bobby Singer should arrive in fifteen minutes, and Castiel was nervous. The guy was Dean’s boss, after all. What if he were disappointed? Dean had told him not to worry, that it was “only Bobby,” whatever that meant, but Castiel was still apprehensive.

“Who the hell wants a president named ‘Dick’?” Dean yelled. Castiel set aside the enchiladas, which now needed to cool, and joined Dean, standing on the threshold between the living room and the kitchen.

“What did you say, Dean?” Castiel asked.

Dean gestured to the TV. “This guy. Dick friggin’ Roman. Who wants a guy named ‘Dick’ running their country?” Dean’s expression turned sheepish as he added, “You didn’t vote for him, did ya?”

Castiel’s mouth twitched into a smile. “No, Dean. I voted for the other candidate. You can make fun of him all you want.”

“Good. Because look at that guy. Everything about him screams ‘douchebag.’”

“Did you vote for the other man, too?”

“Hell no. Why would I wanna vote for any of those clowns?”

Castiel’s voice grew mischievous, a sporadic habit he’d only recently developed. “Then you have no right to complain about the matter.”

“’Course I do. I swear, if this Dick character wins—” The doorbell interrupted him. He jumped up to answer the front door, and a man holding a brown jacket stepped inside. Dean took it and hung it in the coat closet by the door before escorting the man into the living room.

Castiel examined him. He wore a blue-and-white baseball cap and an army-green vest over a long-sleeved checkered navy shirt, an ensemble completed with jeans. With his brown beard, he appeared to be a tough man, and he’d brought a six-pack of beer.

The man extended his empty hand, which Castiel accepted. “You must be Cas,” he concluded, his voice gruff. “I’m Bobby. Nice to finally meet ya.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Castiel replied. He realized he much preferred it when Dean called him “Cas.” When this man said it, something about it sounded alien, almost not quite right. But coming from Dean’s lips, it sounded natural.

Bobby gestured to the six-pack. “Thought I’d bring us some cold ones.”

“That’s perfect, Bobby,” Dean interjected. “I’ll put them in the fridge.” With Dean in the kitchen, Bobby and Castiel stood in awkward silence. Finally, Dean returned. “I think dinner should be ready soon,” he said.

“It should be ready now,” Castiel countered. “Surely the enchiladas have cooled down enough.”

“You made enchiladas?” Bobby asked.

“Yes.” Castiel felt himself coloring slightly. “I didn’t . . . I wasn’t sure what you liked, so there’s beef and chicken.”

“They both sound good to me.”

“Let’s go load up our plates, then,” Dean suggested.

They filed into the kitchen, Dean first in line, followed by Bobby, then Castiel in the rear. No one said a word as they filled their plates. When Bobby was about to go to the table, Dean, who’d been grabbing a beer from the fridge, spoke up. “Aren’t ya gettin’ any salad, Bobby?”

“What?” Bobby grumbled.

“Go ahead. Get yourself some salad. Veggies are good for ya.” Dean winked at Castiel, who bit back a smile.

“All right,” Bobby muttered as he scooped a small amount of salad onto his plate.

When Castiel had finished gathering his food, he debated whether or not he should drink beer or water. After a moment of consideration, he decided on beer, thinking he might as well have what the other two men were drinking. Besides, at Harvelle’s Roadhouse, he’d discovered that beer was surprisingly pleasant.

Dean looked to Castiel once he joined the other two at the table. “What kinda salad is this anyway, Cas?”

Talk about surprises. Dean had actually taken a huge helping of the salad.

“It’s avocado and bean salad,” Castiel answered.

“Well, it’s damn good.”

Bobby ventured a bite of his salad. “That is good,” he added, his tone slightly shocked. He popped open his beer and took a sip. “So, Dean said you’re a priest.”

“Yes,” Castiel replied. “At St. Francis Catholic Church.”

“Then what’re ya doin’ with Dean here? It seems a mite strange.”

Castiel reddened again. He had no idea how to respond, so he just sat there, and eventually Dean answered for him. “I told you before, Bobby. We met at a diner. We, um, got to talkin’, and I told him I was looking for a new place to live, so he said he’d like a roommate, and that’s what happened. Yeah.” Castiel shot Dean a grateful look, and Dean offered him a reassuring smile. Dean’s lie had saved the situation, but why had he lied in the first place? He supposed the truth might seem rather odd and Dean wanted to avoid explaining it. So did Castiel, for that matter. He already got enough flak from Father Raphael and Father Gabriel. 

“And everythin’s workin’ out for ya?” Bobby asked.

“Yes,” Castiel said while Dean simultaneously responded, “Yep.”

“I’ll take that as a good sign, then.” Dean and Castiel grinned.                 

Castiel changed the subject. “How long have you known Dean, Bobby?” 

Bobby shrugged. “All his life, it seems.” He smiled as he reminisced. “I’ve known both of John’s boys since they were born. They were good boys, but they got into plenty of scrapes. Like all boys do. They were always gettin’ bruises. Prob’ly from playin’ out in the woods. Especially Dean, the little daredevil.”

Dean cut in. “Bobby, you remember that one time I climbed that mega-tree?” Bobby nodded. Dean turned to Castiel. “It was a huge tree, Cas. Like, maybe twice as tall as that big oak tree in front of St. Francis’s. I’m not even joking. Anyway, I’d always wanted to climb it, but Dad wouldn’t let me. So one time when he was in town and Sammy was asleep, I tried it out. I got to the top, and I felt like a frickin’ god. Or Superman. Or something. Then I looked down. Not a good idea. I wanted to get down, so I went too fast, and when I was about halfway down, I fell. I was out cold when Dad came home. He had to take me to the hospital. I had a concussion, and Dad was mad at me for months after that,” Dean chuckled. 

Castiel frowned. Was that normal, to be angry at your child for so long after he’d hurt himself? Of course, Dean had broken the rules, but he could’ve _died_ during that incident. Surely that should’ve been what was of most import? The fact that Dean didn’t die or sustain any permanent injury?

But what did Castiel know about normal parental reactions? It wasn’t like he’d been raised with normal parents. Or parents at all, really. The Angelic Brethren considered all adults to be the parents of every child in the compound. By the time they reached their teens, Brethren children would know who their biological parents were, but it did not matter. Those parents were no different than anyone else. When he was twelve, Castiel had learned that his father was a man named Jimmy Novak and his mother a woman named Amelia. The Novaks had spent about a year with the Brethren then departed when given the opportunity to become full-fledged members, leaving Castiel behind because he belonged to the community, not them. 

Dean was laughing, and Bobby didn’t seem to think anything was out of the ordinary. No doubt he’d been overanalyzing the matter.

“I remember, son,” Bobby said to Dean, his voice somber. “I was there in the ER with you and Sam and your dad. We were real scared for ya. I remember thinkin’ I was gonna tear ya a new one if you didn’t make it. And how relieved we all were when we knew you were gonna be all right.” 

Now it appeared that Dean had no idea what to say, so Castiel redirected the conversation. “How long have you owned your garage, Bobby?” he asked.

“I dunno,” he replied. “Seems like forever. Ever since a few years before the boys were born. Thirty-five years? John used to work there, but he couldn’t, not anymore when—” Bobby abruptly stopped, as if he were afraid of finishing his sentence. All three men remained frozen until Dean mumbled something. 

“Mom,” he breathed, his tone reverent.

Bobby gave a curt nod. “Yeah. Losing Mary, it devastated him.” Castiel glanced at Dean, who seemed to have shrunken into himself. He was attempting to hide it, but Castiel detected it all the same. 

Everyone had finished eating, so Castiel gathered the dishes and stacked them in the sink. He brought out a strawberry pie he’d purchased earlier. Dean perked up a little, but he still remained morose. When he was halfway done with his pie, he said, “Mom used to make the best pie.”

“That she did,” Bobby agreed. 

Now Castiel understood why Dean loved pie so much.

Once all three of them were done with their pie, Dean and Castiel bid Bobby good-bye, and he thanked Castiel for making a delicious meal. A moment later, Dean and Castiel collapsed on the couch. Dean was uncharacteristically quiet. “I hope I didn’t upset you,” Castiel said softly. For it had been his question which had brought mention of Dean’s mom into the conversation. 

Dean crossed his arms over his chest then replied, “No. I’m all right.” He paused. “It’s just, sometimes I wonder, what if--?” He didn’t complete the sentence.

“What if what?” Castiel prompted. 

Dean shook his head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

xxxxxxxxxx 

When Dean awoke, Cas turned on the news. Apparently Dick Roman had conceded defeat late last night. “At least we won’t have a Dick for president,” Dean gibed.

Cas laughed. “That’s something, I suppose.” Dean realized Cas expressed amusement more often than when he’d first met him all of only a few weeks ago. Had Dean’s presence brought it out in him, or was Dean imagining things? 

While Dean drove to Bobby’s auto shop, he recalled last night’s supper. _Losing Mary, it devastated him_.

It had more than devastated him; it had shattered him. Dean had understood that even when he was four. He’d had to be strong for the both of them. 

Dad had first hit him a week after Mom’s death. Dean hadn’t slept much for days, always breaking into crying fits after Dad had tucked him in and turned out the lights. He’d known his mom wasn’t coming back, but he wanted her to, wanted it more than anything in the world.

When Dean came tripping down the stairs that fateful night, he found his dad lying on the couch. Glancing into his eyes, Dean could tell he’d been crying, too. “Daddy?” he ventured. 

John sat up and gazed down at him. “What is it, Dean?” He’d spoken gently.

“I miss Mommy.” Dean should’ve noticed the warning signs. John had gritted his teeth, his face tense. 

“Go back to bed,” his dad ordered. Dean hadn’t recognized his tone at the time for what it was, but now Dean understood that it’d been threatening.

“But, Daddy--?” 

Something hit him on the cheek. Hard. He raised his hand to the spot and realized he’d been slapped. “What’d I tell you, boy! Get back to bed!” John shouted.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” he squeaked. He leaned in to hug him, but his dad pushed his arm away. 

Dean climbed back up the stairs, laid down in bed, then stared at the ceiling. Daddy missed Mommy, too. His mom was gone, and his dad had changed.

Soon, he decided that if Daddy needed to hurt him to make himself feel better, he wouldn’t complain. He’d hold in his tears when he could. He’d do what he must, for Daddy. 

Occasionally Dean wondered whether things would’ve been different if Mom had never died. Would John have eventually begun hitting his children? Would he have hit Mary? Dean’s heart clenched at the thought. No, he would’ve never hurt Mom. Dean wouldn’t even consider the idea.

It didn’t matter, anyway. His thoughts would alter nothing. 

When Dean pulled into the garage, he suddenly felt moisture on his cheeks. Dammit, he’d been crying. Why had he been crying? He hurriedly wiped away the tears before going inside.

“Hi, Bobby,” Dean said as he entered the garage. 

“Good mornin’, Dean,” Bobby greeted him.

Work was routine, some parts of the day busy, some not. During a lull, Dean asked, “So, what did you think of Cas?” 

Bobby shrugged. “He’s . . . kind of odd.”

“I know!” Dean exclaimed as he split into a grin. 

Bobby snorted. “You think that’s a good thing?”

“Yeah, when it comes to him.” Bobby raised an eyebrow. “I dunno how to explain it. He just . . . there’s something I like about him.” _I like that he’s sincere and considerate and . . . principled yet non-judgmental_. But for some reason, he couldn’t say those things to Bobby. 

“Whatever you say,” Bobby responded skeptically.

“What did you think was odd about him?” Dean continued. All told, Cas had actually been almost normal last night. Not enough to disguise his strangeness, but still. 

“He was always talkin’ so formal-like. And I’ve never seen a grown man blush so much.”

“Yeah.” _And it’s adorable_ , he didn’t add. At first, Dean had been annoyed by Cas’s propensity to turn red, but soon he’d begun wanting to bring color to his cheeks. It was fun to tease him. Cas’s blushes made him smile. And yes, they were adorable, in the sense that people thought puppies and kittens were adorable. 

“He was nice, though,” Bobby conceded. “And a damn good cook.”

A customer walked in, and they resumed working. 

Later, Dean took a short break. He’d been busy for the past two hours. He was about to go to the front and grab a water bottle when he heard a familiar voice that glued him to the spot.

 _John_. 

_Dad._

_Please, I don’t want him to know I’m here._  

“Dean!” he heard Bobby call. He tiptoed farther into the back, where the tools were, hoping Bobby wouldn’t come looking for him. “Dean! Your old man’s here!” Dean tripped over a stack of old license plates, scattering them everywhere with a loud crash. They must be from when Bobby used to own that salvage yard. What the hell was he keeping them all for?

Bounding footsteps headed in his direction. Of course. Bobby had probably heard the noise Dean had made. “Dean,” Bobby said when he found him. “What’re ya doin’?” 

“Um, I, I . . . ” Dean stammered.

“Well, your old man’s here. He wants to say hi. C’mon.” 

“Okay.” Dean followed him to the front of the shop, where he met his father face-to-face for the first time in two years.

“Hi, Dean,” John said. He looked no different than the last time Dean had seen him. Thick brown hair, a beard of brown stubble, that leather jacket. 

“Hi, Dad,” Dean gasped. He felt out of breath.

“It’s been a while, son,” John observed. 

“Yes.” John’s eyes had locked with his, and he couldn’t look away.

“I miss you.” 

“You do?” God, why had his voice just risen an octave? And why did he sound so damn _hopeful_?

“Of course. You’re my son.” He took a step forward, and Dean started friggin’ _trembling_. “Let’s forget the past. I’m sorry if I ever hurt you.” His dad’s voice sounded so tender and _loving_. 

“You are?” Why did he still sound so damn _shrill_?

“Uh-huh.” He stepped forward again and placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You mean more to me than anything.” 

Was he saying all this for Bobby’s benefit? Bobby wouldn’t know the half of what his dad might be sorry for, but he did know that the two Winchesters had had their differences.

Or did John really mean what he said? 

Dean wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe him oh so much.

He loved his dad, and more than anything, he wanted his dad to love him back. 

“Dean,” John continued. “Why don’t you come home this weekend? We can catch up.”

Dean gulped. Instinct told him he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t refuse, not with Bobby right there. He didn’t want Bobby to begin suspecting there was something he didn’t know about. 

Dean wanted to say no.

But he wanted to say yes even more.

“Yeah. Okay,” Dean answered in a low voice.

John smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Great. See you this weekend, kid.”

And like that, he was gone.

“Now, was that so hard?” Bobby remarked. He disappeared into the back, and Dean exhaled, letting out an unsteady breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading!


	9. The Prodigal Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.
> 
> I've been waiting for this chapter (and the next one). I hope I did the idea justice. There should be quite a bit of angst.
> 
> No Cas in this one, unfortunately, but he'll be back next time.

On Friday evening, Dean tried to keep his voice even as he informed Cas he was going to visit his dad for the weekend. If Cas noticed anything amiss, he didn’t say anything as he wished Dean a satisfying trip.

 _Well, here goes nothing_ , Dean thought as he switched on the Impala. Since John Winchester lived in the middle of nowhere, the drive took almost thirty-five minutes. When Dean turned down the decrepit road that led to his dad’s cabin, he cringed as he heard crunching underbrush beneath his car. At the end of the road stood the cabin. It looked the same as usual, perhaps in need of a little touchup in a few places. Several tall trees leaned over the wooden structure, and a few paces behind the house, Dean spotted the tree he’d fallen out of years ago. It towered over everything else nearby.

He parked the Impala next to his dad’s truck and braced himself for what lay ahead. Everything would be fine, he told himself. His dad had seemed calm enough on Wednesday. Then again, that could’ve just been because of Bobby. His dad had always been smart enough to rein himself in when he was around Bobby.

But except for Bobby, John was alone. It wouldn’t be unreasonable for him to miss Dean, would it? And two years was a long time, long enough for him to maybe have changed.

He would just need to tread carefully around Dad. Not bring anything up that might excite him. Yeah, he could do that. There wasn’t any reason things had to be as they were before.

With that in mind, he strolled up to the front door of the cabin and rapped on it twice. The door swung open instantly, and on the other side, Dad.

“Hey, Dad,” Dean breathed.

“Dean,” John replied, enveloping him in a hug and pulling him inside. Dean buried his face in his dad’s shoulder and tried his best not to cry. When he drew back, he noticed that there were tears in his dad’s eyes. John smiled. “It’s been too long. Much, much too long.”

Dean gave the only reply he could think of. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” John echoed.

Dean followed his dad to the living room, where John suggested he sit on the couch. He went to the kitchen and returned with two beers, one of which he handed to Dean. He raised his bottle and clinked it against Dean’s. “To us,” he pronounced.

“To us,” Dean repeated in a low voice. This was going much better than he could’ve ever imagined.

His dad gulped down some of the drink then asked, “So, how long have you been workin’ at Bobby’s?”

“About three weeks,” Dean replied.

“I’m glad you guys are together. He’ll take care of you.”

“Yeah.”

John downed more of his beer before speaking again. “What’ve you been up to? Two years . . . there’s so much I don’t know about.”

“Oh.” Dean stared at the floor. Like so much of his life, the past two years had been a waste. Odd jobs here and there, nights and weekends at the bar, getting laid when he could. All attempts to fill the emptiness inside, all of which had failed. He raised his eyes from the ground and scuffed the floor with his boot. “They haven’t been ideal,” he admitted. “But I think . . . maybe I’m finally getting my life on track.” Was he? With a shock, he realized it was true. The job with Bobby would provide stability. Then there was Cas. Castiel. His presence in Dean’s life had somehow brought a steadiness to it. Or the beginnings of it, anyway. Funny, but stranger things had happened. 

“That’s good. You have no idea how happy that makes me.”

“What about you?” Dean asked. “What’ve you been up to?”

“Not much. I’ve been chasing that demon that killed your mom. I swear, it pops up around here, it likes to torment me. But I’ll get it one day.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t want to encourage his father’s wild imaginings, but he didn’t want to contradict them, either. That was the surest way to set him off. Plus, that was how his dad coped with Mom’s death. Believing that there was some way to exact revenge on whatever had set the fire rather than accepting the senseless truth: it had been nothing but an accident. An unsolved one, for no one knew how the fire had started. While Dean had been growing up, his dad had told him that he’d inadvertently let the demon in. Dean didn’t know what that meant in real terms, but he knew it indicated that the accident had somehow been his fault. Like, maybe he’d been messing with the gas heater or something. He didn’t remember, but in his soul, he felt it to be true: Mom’s death had been his fault.

“I’m sure you will,” Dean muttered, shrinking inside at the lie.

“Yeah.” John drained his bottle then turned to Dean. “I’m gettin’ another. You want one?” Dean finished up his beer then nodded. John took both bottles to the trash in the kitchen and brought back two fresh beers. After he sat back down, he pointed at a DVD case on the coffee table. “I rented _The Dark Knight Rises_. Have you seen it?”

“Yeah. It’s awesome.”

“I haven’t, but I remember how much you used to love Batman. Wanna watch it?”

Dean grinned. “Yeah. I’m always up for Batman.”

“I’ll be right back. I’m gonna make us some popcorn, then we can watch the movie.”

“Okay.” His dad retreated to the kitchen once again, and Dean heard him start the microwave. The buttery smell wafted into the living room, making Dean’s mouth water. A couple of minutes later, his dad came back with two large bowls of popcorn. He gave one to Dean and dug into his bowl.

“Let’s get this started,” John said.

For the next two and a half hours, Dean relaxed and enjoyed himself. Here he was, drinking beer with his dad, eating popcorn, watching one of his favorite movies—what could be more heavenly?

When the movie was over, Dean and his dad spent a while discussing it. They talked about how awesome Bane had been and how Tom Hardy was no doubt a kick-ass actor. Catwoman was all right, but Anne Hathaway looked damn good in the outfit. Christian Bale was amazing as always. And when would the new Robin movie come out already?

Then they retired for the night. Dean went to his old bedroom, John a few steps behind him. When Dean stood in the doorway, John smiled at him and said, “Good night, Dean. You should know that I love you. Very much.”

Dean beamed, his grin radiating love. No words were necessary. “Good night, Dad,” he replied, his voice filled with awe.

Dean examined the room before getting into bed. It was Spartan, as it’d always been, the wooden walls bare, the only furniture a desk, bed, and small chest of drawers.

When he collapsed into bed, sleep hit him instantly. His night was filled with pleasant dreams, warm moments of him and Mom and Dad and Sammy being a family once again.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Dean was awoken by the most wonderful of smells. His eyes fluttered open. Was his dad making breakfast? Impressive.

He rolled out of bed, not bothering to smooth down his hair, which was surely sticking up, and ambled into the kitchen, where he seated himself at the table. John turned from the stove to offer his son a smile. “Good mornin’,” he said.

“Good mornin’,” Dean mumbled through a yawn.

His dad heaped some food onto a plate and handed it to Dean. “I’ve got all your favorites.” That he did. Crispy bacon, fried eggs, pancakes. It’d been so long since he’d had a proper breakfast. He devoured everything and then heaped his plate with seconds. His dad, who’d been eating at a much more reasonable pace, chuckled.                                                                                                            

“This is delicious, Dad,” Dean said through a mouthful of bacon.

“Don’t ever let it be said your old man can’t scrounge up a real breakfast,” John responded.

Dean grinned. “No, sir.” After he finished his plate, Dean asked, “So, what’re we doin’ today?”

“I thought we’d watch some football. There’s gonna be some great games on today.”

“Awesome.” Dean carried his dishes to the sink then turned back to his dad. “Well, I’m gonna take a shower. Then: football.”

“Damn right,” John chortled.

Dean took his time in the shower. Maybe that was kind of girly, but so what? The water pressure here had always been killer. At one point, he caught himself actually freakin’ _humming_. Now _that_ was much too girly. He abruptly ceased that nonsense. When the shower was over, he toweled off in front of the mirror and smiled at himself. Then he frowned. Everything was just too perfect. This couldn’t be real. He pinched himself. It hurt. This must be real, then, and he wouldn’t jinx everything by entertaining negative thoughts.

After Dean dressed, he shuffled into the living room and found his dad had gathered beer and snacks and set them on the coffee table. “You’re just in time,” he said. “The game is about to start.”

The first game John had elected to watch was KU versus Kansas State. Not exactly the most exciting game on, as the University of Kansas would no doubt wipe the floor with their opponents, but the Winchesters had always been huge KU fans.

For the first half of the game, things went just as expected. KU was outscoring Kansas State big time. But Kansas State staged a surprising comeback in the third quarter, and by the end of it, they were losing by only a touchdown.

“They need to get their asses back in gear,” John hissed.

“Sure do,” Dean agreed.

KU held Kansas State off for most of the fourth quarter, but somehow they kept missing chances to score against Kansas State’s sucky defense. Then, with two minutes left in the game, it was declared that Kansas State had scored a touchdown. The ruling was contested, however, and the sportscasters replayed the supposed touchdown again and again, analyzing it to death. The player’s left foot had not entered the end zone. Nevertheless, the referees ruled that the touchdown was valid.

“Sons of bitches!” John yelled. “That’s not a fuckin’ touchdown!” He threw one of his empty beer bottles at a wall, and it shattered.

Dean was pissed at the call, too, but he winced at John’s unbridled agitation. As he continued to fume for what seemed like forever, Dean finally whispered, “Dad. It’s just a game.”

John’s face grew redder. “Just a game, my ass!”

The game went into overtime, and Kansas State wound up winning with a field goal. “I can’t believe this fuckin’ farce!” John exclaimed.

“Dad, calm down,” Dean urged in a gentle voice. “It’s okay.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” John shouted before storming out the front door.

Uneasy, Dean hoped that his dad would compose himself before he returned. He found the broom and dustbin and swept up the glass from John’s broken beer bottle.

xxxxxxxxxx 

“You’ve been _sleeping_ , boy?” The question boomed in Dean’s ear, and he hastily sat up, rubbing his eyes. He looked up into John’s face, his eyes darkened, strands of hair sticking out at all angles. A few leaves clung to his flannel plaid shirt.

Dean shrugged. “I guess I have.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. It’d been almost two hours since his dad rushed outside. “What’ve ya been doin’?”

“I went on a run. I found some of those demon’s tracks,” John replied. He frowned down at Dean. “You couldn’t do something useful while I was gone?” He paused. “Like practice your weaponry?”

Dean ran a hand over the back of his neck. “I forgot about that,” he mumbled.

“You would!” his dad spat. His tone turned kinder. “Well, you’re probably rusty. Time for a refresher.” He held out his hand, and when Dean accepted it, he pulled him up. Dean was still uncertain about his dad’s behavior, but he seemed to have simmered down a little at least. John led his son down the path to the shed, which contained the weapons he’d trained his sons to use.

While the two men sparred, they lost track of time, lived in the here and now. Though Dean didn’t believe in his dad’s crackpot demon theory, he’d always enjoyed wielding the weapons. It was oddly soothing. Plus, it made him feel powerful, something he rarely got to experience. It felt good to heft the axe, the nunchucks, the staff, the dagger, the sword. He beat his father with the latter after a long and heated contest.

John laughed. “You were always so good at this! Sam could hold his own, but you . . . you were such a good little soldier.”

 _A good little soldier_. Dean froze at the words. He had been, once. He’d practice for hours, determined to help his dad defeat the demon that’d killed his mom. Until he was older, when he realized that his father wasn’t in his right mind, at least where Mary’s death was concerned. Even then, he practiced and practiced, wanting to prove his worth to Daddy, wanting to feel like Daddy loved him back. And still now, that desire never went away. Pathetic. Yes, Dad had said he loved him, but when John looked at him with contempt, as he had after waking Dean up from his nap, he doubted the truth of those words.

John found two guns and a basket of old soda cans. “Let’s see who can hit more targets.” Dean followed him to the circle of stumps behind the shed and helped him set up the cans. “You can go first,” he said to Dean.

“Okay.” Dean took aim and fired, hitting the first can squarely in the middle.

John roared his approval. They continued like this, each man shooting expertly. But on one of his turns, John suddenly dropped his pistol and held up a hand. “Did you hear that?” he asked.

“Hear what?”

“That noise. Listen.” They both remained still. Dean didn’t hear anything, but John exclaimed, “There it is again!”

“It’s nothing,” Dean assured him. “Probably just a fox or something.”

“That wasn’t nothing!” His dad picked up his pistol. “It must be the demon.”

“Dad, it’s not the demon.”

“’Course it is!” He crept toward the dense thickets of the woods. Dean sighed. It was almost dusk, and he had no wish to go traipsing through the forest only to get lost overnight. But he couldn’t let his dad go in there alone.

“Dad, what’re you doing?” Dean asked once he’d caught up with him.

“I think I heard it go this way,” John explained.

“Dad—”

“Shh! We don’t want it to know we’re onto him.” Dean rolled his eyes, but he complied with his dad’s request. Or order, more like.

He reminded himself that his dad needed this illusion. It was his way of coping with an unthinkable tragedy. Yes, it was unhealthy, but what else did John have?

He _needed_ this, so Dean would indulge him.

About fifteen minutes after they’d entered the woods, John released a volley of shots then cursed. “Dammit! Did you hear where it went?”

Dean shrugged then realized his dad probably couldn’t see him in the waning light. “No,” he answered.

“We’ll just listen. We’ll hear him eventu—there it is!” John dashed deeper into the forest, and Dean rushed after him. More gunshots. Tears prickled Dean’s eyes. Nothing hurt more than watching his dad shoot at something imaginary. It was cruel to let his dad continue this way.

But it was also cruel to take away the crutch John leaned so heavily on. Besides, his dad would never believe him if he told the truth. Sam had tried that once, shortly before he left for college. John had kicked him out of the house and yelled he should never come back. Dean had been poised to chase after him, but his dad had knocked him out to prevent him from leaving. By the time Dean had come to, Sam had been long gone.

The incident flashed through Dean’s mind again and again as he continued to follow John deeper into the forest. It grew so dark that Dean could only dimly make out what was around him.

Then John shouted his name angrily, jerking Dean out of his trance. His eyes snapped in his father’s direction. His dad approached him until he was merely a few feet away. “You let him get away!” John shouted.

“What?” Dean replied, confused.

“The demon! He was right in front of you, and you let it get away!”

“It’s not real,” Dean muttered. His dad dissolved into a bastion of rage, and only then did he realize he’d spoken the words aloud. Underneath that rage, Dean could see hints of hurt and betrayal. John closed the distance between them, and Dean stood his ground despite every fiber in his body screaming that he should run.

“I’m sorry,” Dean breathed, for he was. He’d wounded his father.

A blow landed on his right eye, then another. “You little shit!” his dad yelled.

Hands closed around his throat, hands that pushed him against the nearest tree. “It’s your fault the demon got her, and you won’t even _try_ to avenge her!” Dean found oxygen becoming scarce. “What would your mom think of that, huh?! She’d be freakin’ disappointed in you!” John kept one hand on his neck while raining more blows on his nose and mouth. “You hear me! Disappointed!” John released him and returned a moment later with a two-by-four. Dean briefly wondered where he’d gotten that from out here, but then he began striking Dean with it. Again. And again.

He would take it. His dad needed this.

But the pain just kept coming and coming. It was too much.

“Daddy,” he managed to gasp, tasting blood in his mouth as his tongue moved. “Daddy, please.”

“Don’t you ‘Daddy, please’ me, boy!” John hollered as he continued to pommel his son.

_Oh, God, he’s really going to kill me this time.—_

_He’s going to do it.—_

_He’s going to kill me kill me I’m going to die—_

As his world faded away, Dean wondered whether that’d be such a bad thing.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Dean opened his eyes to pitch-black darkness. He dipped his hand in his pocket, rummaging around until he found his cell phone. He unlocked it and stared at the blurry bright screen, fumbling until he’d opened the flashlight app. A yellow glow illuminated the haze around him. He was surrounded by trees, alone, and he had no idea how to get out of here. He attempted to stand up, but his unstable legs collapsed under him. He staggered to his feet again, this time leaning against the tree for support. He tentatively let the tree go, and with much effort, he was able to remain on his feet.

He had to get out of here. That was all he knew. All sorts of things could be awaiting him in these woods late at night.

He wandered for what seemed hours, at times barely able to move. He periodically had to stop and lie down and rest, but he wouldn’t let himself fall asleep. He needed out of here. Away from this—away from everything. Away from Dad, who’d reverted to his old self. Who knew what the fucker would do once he decided to come back and find him?

No. That was harsh of him. His dad couldn’t help himself; he needed to damage, to render onto another the brokenness of his own self. But Dean couldn’t take any more of it, at least for tonight. Perhaps ever.

Dean persevered, running on nothing but adrenaline. When he reached the Impala, blessedly, finally, he fell inside. Then he noticed that the lights were on inside his dad’s cabin. He couldn’t stay here, not if he didn’t want to encounter John again.

Dean could hardly perceive what he was doing, but he drove anyway. He told himself he could let go once he reached home. And somehow, he made it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Btw, I appreciate all the various feedback. It encourages me to keep going with the story. :)


	10. After the Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.
> 
> Like with the last chapter, I've been looking forward to this one. I hope I did right by it.

Castiel jolted awake. There’d been a thunderous bang. He put the sound down to a dream and drifted back to sleep, but then he heard it again. With bleary eyes, he glanced at the clock on his bedside table. It was nearly three a.m. He rolled out of bed and ventured out of his room to investigate. The closer he got to the kitchen, the louder the noise became. “Dean? Is that you?” he called. It had to be Dean. Either that or a robber. He steeled himself for the latter possibility. “Dean?” he shouted again.

When he reached the kitchen, he flicked on the light switch. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Dean. “Dean,” he began as he swiveled to face him, “what’re you doing back--?” But when his eyes alit on him, he stopped in the middle of the question and exclaimed, “Oh, my God!”

Dean broke into feeble laughter, and Castiel frowned. “You . . . took . . . the Lord’s name . . . in vain,” he coughed out. Was he delirious? He sounded delirious.

Castiel tried to digest the sight in front of him, his eyes raking over Dean. Only one jeweled green orb looked back at him, the other bruised and swollen shut. Leaves and dirt speckled his sandy brown hair, more sticking to his face on top of dried blood. The crusted blood was under his nose, at the corners of his mouth, on his lips, on his chin, even under his busted eye. Bruises mottled his neck, and more leaves adhered to his clothes.

He strode toward Dean until he was only a few inches away from him. He raised a hand to Dean’s right cheek and brushed his fingertips over it. “Your father did this to you, didn’t he?” Dean gave a tiny shake of his head, but Castiel continued to gaze up at him until he nodded. Dean wobbled for a moment. Castiel realized Dean was supporting himself by gripping the countertop with one hand, and his legs were shaking under him. “Let’s get you to the couch,” he declared. Castiel grasped Dean’s arm and placed his other hand on his waist. Dean winced, indicating he was more injured than Castiel could see at the moment, and shied away while murmuring something about being able to walk by himself. But as they took a step toward the living room, Dean lost his balance. Castiel caught him before he could hit the floor, and he supported him until they neared the couch. He helped Dean sit down then returned to the kitchen. He retrieved a rag and stared into oblivion as he ran the water over it. Tears filled his eyes. Who could do that to their own son? He wiped his eyes, resolving to hold in his emotion and concentrate on tending to Dean. He snatched up a roll of paper towels then went to the bathroom and grabbed the first aid kit before returning to the living room. After flipping on the floor lamp, he sat on the edge of the couch next to Dean.

Castiel raised the rag to Dean’s face. “Here. Let me,” he said gently. Dean neither protested nor assented, so Castiel proceeded. At first, he rubbed at the blood under Dean’s eye, but when Dean flinched, he slowed down, ghosting the rag over Dean’s skin. It took a while, but Castiel didn’t care, his priority being not to hurt Dean any further. When he finished, he patted Dean’s face dry, then he pulled back and forced a small smile. “There. You’re clean.” Dean snorted, the sound coming out more like a whinny through his damaged nose.

“Now,” Castiel continued. He couldn’t help blushing a little, and he bit his lip. “I’m going to need to . . . look under your shirt.” Take it off, actually, but Castiel found himself unable to say those words. He reached for the top button of Dean’s long-sleeved shirt, but Dean yanked it out of his grasp. “Dean,” Castiel told him patiently. “I saw . . . I know there’s more under there.” He clasped his hands. “Let me. Please?” Dean didn’t reply, but when Castiel touched the button again, Dean remained still. Gingerly, he slipped each button out of its hole, but Dean still grimaced as the shirt chafed against his skin. Once the shirt was completely undone, Castiel drew it off and laid it aside.

At the sight of Dean’s chest, Castiel’s breath hitched.

He was curious about the burn on Dean’s shoulder and the strange tattoo on his chest, a pentagram inside a sunburst.

But those marks hadn’t provoked his reaction.

Countless fresh bruises dotted Dean’s entire torso. A few splinters had embedded themselves in his skin, the largest accompanied by smeared blood. His arms contained fainter bruises and a few scratches.

Castiel chewed his lip as he thought about what he should tackle first. Dean gave off a short laugh. “Is it really that bad?” he whispered.

“Dean, you could barely move,” Castiel pointed out. With his injuries, it must’ve taken Dean enormous strength to come home. It was a miracle that nothing else had happened to him on his way.

Castiel decided that the big splinter should come first. He snapped open the first aid kit and extracted the necessary supplies: tweezers, povidone-iodine solution, arnica cream, bandages. He bathed the tweezers in the solution. Before touching the metal to Dean’s skin, he warned, “This might hurt.” He grasped the splinter with the tweezers and tugged at it, Dean groaning and grinding his teeth. He dropped the splinter on top of Dean’s shirt then said, “I’m sorry. That should be the worst one.” He tried to remove the next splinter at a slower pace, thinking that might lessen the pain for Dean. Instead, it seemed as if the lengthier process aggravated the sting. Castiel took the others out more quickly, Dean occasionally hissing in pain. Finally, Castiel could say, “That was the last one.” He ran a hand through Dean’s hair, picking the grime out of it. Dean seemed to find the action soothing, so Castiel let his hand stroke Dean’s hair a couple more times before continuing his ministrations. He wiped the blood off of Dean’s chest then carefully placed a bandage on the wound caused by the large splinter.

Castiel held up the arnica cream. “This,” he explained, “should help with the bruises. Ease the pain and speed up the healing process.” Dean would not like what was coming next. Castiel felt his cheeks reddening. What was wrong with him? This didn’t have to be an intimate matter. He’d done this sort of thing before without the specter of intimacy. But for some reason, this, with Dean, struck him as more intimate than anything from the past.

He dabbed his fingers in the cream then lifted his eyes to Dean’s good one and asked, “May I?” Dean nodded his consent, a faint blush tingeing his cheeks. Castiel began lathering the cream into Dean’s skin, but the accompanying silence made him feel more apprehensive about what he was doing. “Has your father always been like this?” he inquired. When Dean didn’t answer, he looked up at him. An unshed tear was all the reply he needed. “He has.” So, the man abused his sons. Or one of his sons, at least. Father Raphael couldn’t have been more wrong; “good men” didn’t treat his sons as John Winchester had. As he still did.

“He can’t help it,” Dean choked out.

Castiel’s heart throbbed. Why was Dean _excusing_ his father’s behavior? “Your loyalty to your father is admirable,” Castiel sighed. “But he doesn’t deserve it.”

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Dean rasped.

The ache in Castiel’s heart grew stronger. Everything fell into place. He recognized the signs: Dean had been brainwashed, conditioned by the formative years spent with his dad. As Castiel had once been brainwashed by the Brethren. You did whatever was asked of you to seek the approval of those you’d always loved, even if you knew it wasn’t wise. He recalled some of the acts he’d performed while at the Next Level, things his conscience had screamed at him not to do. Yet he’d done them anyway.

For instance, there had been that couple and their daughter Naarah. Since he’d come from a similar background, he’d been chosen for the errand. Zoe and Vincent Chad, like the Novaks, had spent one year with the Brethren. They hadn’t been much older than Castiel, seniors in high school who’d run away and eloped when Zoe had become pregnant. The Brethren had sheltered them, and in exchange they’d agreed to learn the Brethren’s ways. After a year, they had to make a choice: change their names and become full members or leave without their daughter. They’d decided they didn’t want to stay, objecting to the idea of compulsive conformity. But they loved their daughter and refused to part with her.

Uriel reminded them they’d agreed to the conditions set before them when they’d joined the compound a year ago; he even produced the documents they’d signed. But they still wouldn’t give up their daughter.

Uriel revealed to those of the Next Level that he’d received Revelation—Castiel must take Naarah Chad from her parents by any means necessary. His heart had sunk at the news. Despite what’d taken place with Balthazar, he still had faith in Uriel. He felt that the idea was _wrong_ , but Uriel had declared it was necessary, a command from God.

So Castiel had followed orders, snatching the baby from a sobbing Zoe Chad’s arms and rushing her to the compound’s guarded nursery while Vincent Chad had chased him.

Afterward, Uriel congratulated him on a job well-done. Castiel felt tears burning in his eyes, but he held them back, believing they were wrong. Still, Uriel had noticed them, and he lectured Castiel on the importance of pure faith. He knew Castiel was good, he said, but he was clearly still under the influence of that apostate Balthazar. He would need to do penance to wash that filth out of his system, a penance that involved occasional self-flagellation in front of witnesses—

No, he shouldn’t think about that. It had been a long time ago, and his life was different now.

Castiel suspected that Dean’s devotion to his father resembled his own when he’d been with the Brethren. He probably defended his dad’s beatings because he’d been brainwashed by years of abuse. A misguided attempt to please his father.

Castiel had finished rubbing the cream into Dean’s skin, and now he dried his hands on a paper towel. He looked up again at Dean. “You need rest. You’ll sleep in my bed tonight. I’ll take the couch.”

“No,” Dean protested in a weak voice.

“Yes.” Castiel’s tone was decisive. “I will brook no argument.” Dean opened his mouth, but Castiel gave him a look that persuaded him to shut it.

He slung Dean’s arm around his neck and helped him to his feet. As earlier, Dean at first attempted to move on his own, but he wound up leaning on Castiel instead. When they reached the bed, Castiel assisted him in lying down then whispered, “Now rest. Good night, Dean.” He planted a kiss on his forehead. He didn’t know why, but for some reason it felt like the thing to do.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Dean woke up to sunshine streaming through white curtains. Where was he? This wasn’t his room. No, this was _Cas’s_ room. What was he doing sleeping in Cas’s room?

He lifted his head from the bed, and pain radiated all over. The events of last night slammed into his consciousness.

Dad had lashed out again, and Dean had come back here to Cas’s. He vaguely remembered something about Cas’s cold fingers stroking his skin. He looked down and found that he was shirtless. So that _had_ happened. It had been ointment of some kind.

Something about his vision was off. He squinted, but that didn’t help. He raised a hand to his right eye and discovered it was soldered shut.

Approaching footsteps, then Cas entered the bedroom, wearing his black outfit and collar. “Hello, Dean,” he said with a small grin. “I see you’re awake.”

“Why’m I in your bed?” Dean asked in a guarded tone.

“You needed—need—rest. I couldn’t very well let you sleep on the couch.” He gestured toward a bowl on the bedside table. “I made you some oatmeal. If you’re hungry . . . ” The oatmeal did smell good. “It’s Sunday. I have to go, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Why’re you doing this?”

Cas appeared puzzled. “Doing what?”

Dean thought of everything he’d done to Cas—yelling at him after the first night he’d spent here, being a jackass to him that weekend they’d gone to Harvelle’s Roadhouse. “Being so nice to me. I don’t deserve it.”

A flicker of something passed through Cas’s eyes. “Dean,” he said softly. “You deserve much more than you think you do.” He leaned in and smoothed Dean’s hair back from his sweat-soaked forehead. “Get some more rest,” he urged.

Something about this felt like _home_. Not that cabin in the forest with the arsenal out back and an unpredictable dad, but what he’d imagined when he was in elementary school and heard the other kids chattering about their moms and dads and dinners and desserts and toys and the repositories of everything they held dear.

xxxxxxxxxx 

“Dean, you are _not_ going to work,” Castiel asserted on Monday morning.

Dean managed to maneuver himself into a sitting position on the bed. “’Course I am.”

“You are in no condition to do such a thing.”

“I can work,” Dean pouted. He tumbled out of bed and stood up. “See? I’m fine.” But his winces gave him away.

“No, you’re not. I’ll call Bobby and tell him you can’t come in.”

“No, don’t call Bobby!” Dean objected. “Bobby can’t know.”

“I think he’ll know when you show up at the garage looking like _that_.”

“I’ll think of something to tell him. But he can’t know. Not about Dad.” Castiel frowned at him. “He’s Dad’s only friend. I can’t take that from him.”

As far as Castiel was concerned, whether John Winchester had friends or not was immaterial. No, he must remind himself not to judge. It wasn’t his place. But when Saturday night replayed in his mind, it was difficult to keep himself from judging.

“No one can know,” Dean continued.

“Then I won’t say anything,” Castiel pledged despite his misgivings. “But you’re still not going.”

“Okay, _Mom_.” Dean sighed and sank back into the bed. Castiel smiled at the remark.

Castiel retrieved the home phone and persuaded Dean to give him Bobby’s number. After a couple of rings, Bobby’s ornery voice answered. “Hello?”

“Hello, Bobby. It’s Castiel.”

“ _Cas?_ ”

“Yes. I, um. Dean can’t come to work today. Or tomorrow, probably.” Dean glared at him.

“What?”

“Yes. He’s, um, not well.”

“What’s wrong with him? Is he sick? Why can’t he call me himself?”

“He’s just not well,” Castiel reiterated.

“What’s up? Is he okay?”

“He’ll be all right. He just needs to rest for a couple of days.”

“Oh.” Why did Bobby sound so suspicious? “Does he need help? Should I come over there?”

“What? No, no, there’s no need to come over.” He glanced at Dean nervously. “Everything will be fine. Like I said, he just needs some rest.”

“If you say so.”

“Yes. Good-bye, Bobby.”

“Bye.”

When Castiel hung up the phone, Dean erupted into laughter. Castiel gave him a quizzical look. “‘He’s just not well’? Could you have sounded any sketchier, dude?”

“What’s wrong with it?” Castiel inquired.

“Nothing. If you want to sound like you’re hiding something.”

“Oh.” Castiel cast his eyes downward. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it next time I see Bobby.”

Castiel brightened. “All right.” He paused. “Will you be okay if I go to St. Francis’s today?” Maybe he was imagining it, but yesterday he thought he saw Father Raphael and Father Michael give him a dirty look. He didn’t want to provide them with more opportunities for that sort of thing if he could help it.

“I’ll be fine,” Dean assured him.

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “You won’t try to go to work?”

Dean rolled his eyes—or eye, rather. “No, I won’t try to go to work.”

“Good. See you later, Dean.”

“See ya, Cas.”

Castiel wanted to be able to come home quickly this evening, so he drove to St. Francis’s. As was so often the case lately, when he walked into the coffee-break room, Father Michael and Father Raphael were already there. He poured himself a cup and offered his colleagues a perfunctory greeting as he sat down, his mind far away from this place.

“Late again, I see,” Father Raphael chided him, and he was forced to return to the present moment.

Just because he used to come in earlier did _not_ mean he was late. He didn’t understand the other priests’ newfound disdain for him. Perhaps it was really only Father Raphael, but Father Michael seemed to tacitly agree with it. It had started when Castiel first brought up Dean Winchester, but surely that couldn’t be all there was to it. Although truth be told, perhaps the signs had been there before then, just more covert. Maybe in the way they’d always jeered at him when he misunderstood something that apparently should have been obvious. Dean teased him for that, too, but in a good-natured way.

“You’ve still got Dean Winchester down at your place?” Father Michael asked. Castiel nodded. “It’s been what, almost a month?” Castiel shrugged. “How long are you planning on keeping him?”

“As long as it takes,” Castiel answered.

“What does that mean?” Castiel shrugged again. He realized he was clenching his fist, so he hid it under the table. Did they have to bring Dean up nearly every day?

“I don’t know what poor John Winchester ever did to end up with the life he got,” Father Raphael sighed. “His wife. A successful son who lets his dad rot in the woods. Then that other son . . . worthless.”

Castiel swore Father Raphael was trying to provoke him, and it was working. He felt his fist tightening, and he reminded himself to calm down. But when Dean’s appearance on Saturday night was so _vivid_ . . .

For once, he snapped at Father Raphael, articulating through gritted teeth, “You have no right to make such judgments.”

Father Raphael flashed one of the most unpleasant smiles Castiel had ever seen. “Don’t I? If we don’t, who does?”

“God, and only God,” Castiel hissed.

“But we’re the emissaries of God. If we say Dean Winchester is worthless, then no doubt he is.”

“ _We_ don’t. _You_ do.” Fuming, he stalked out of the room, leaving his half-full mug on the table.

xxxxxxxxxx 

After three frickin’ days, Cas _finally_ let Dean take more than two steps away from the bed. The guy sure could nag. But if he was honest with himself, he kind of liked having Cas fuss over him. It made him feel . . . well, it was a feeling he’d never had before. No one had ever given so much attention to caring for him. When he’d been sick or sustained a training injury, Dad had always told him to man up and get over it. This despite the fact he’d practically begged Dean to coddle him when he’d had the flu a couple of years ago. Fuckin’ hypocrite.

Dean was still sore all over, both physically and mentally, but he insisted on going to the garage. Cas objected, but Dean was adamant, and he got his way.

When he arrived at work, Dean wondered whether that’d been such a good idea. The pain would probably increase as the day wore on. All right. If so, he’d deal with it. He was a tough bastard.

“What the hell happened to you, son?!” Bobby exclaimed when Dean ambled inside.

“Nice to see you, too, Bobby,” Dean remarked.

“Seriously. What happened?”

Dean shrugged. “Bar fights can be a real bitch.”

“Is this why Cas said you couldn’t come in?”

“Yep.”

“And this happened over the weekend?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Weren’t you visiting your dad this weekend?”

Dammit. “Uh-huh.”

“You got in a bar fight at your dad’s?” Bobby asked skeptically.

“No. Of course not,” Dean laughed. Bobby stared at him. “It was. Um, Friday night before I went to Dad’s. Yeah.”

“You were okay enough to go to your dad’s but not to come to work?”

“Yeah.” Bobby looked disbelieving, and Dean quickly thought of something to say. “It’s just Cas, y’know. When I came home and he saw me, he sort of um, panicked, and wouldn’t let me do anything. It was fuckin’ annoying.”

“Uh-huh.” Bobby still didn’t sound convinced, but he retreated to somewhere in the back, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. Bullet dodged.

However, Dean’s reaction had been premature. When Bobby came back a moment later with a few tools, he picked up the conversation again. “I may’ve been born at night,” he said. Dean was startled by Bobby's tone, which was more serious than he’d ever heard before. “But it wasn’t last night.” Dean shrank at Bobby’s penetrating gaze. “What’s going on between you and your old man?”

“What?” Dean tried to scoff. “N . . . nothing. There’s nothing.” He forced a grin and suppressed the tears he felt forming.

“Right.” He turned around. “I guess I’ll just have to ask John, then.”

“You do that.” That should resolve things. John would feed Bobby whatever lies he’d been telling him for years, and all should return to normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those last two chapters were draining. I might have to slow down my updates. There shouldn't ever be more than a week between chapters; if circumstances ever make it otherwise, I'll post a note about it. There's a good amount to come, though, and I'm eager to write this story, so we'll see what happens.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I appreciate it very much. :)


	11. Give Thanks unto the Lord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.
> 
> The story wouldn't be complete without a trip to Biggerson's . . .

Dean didn’t know what his dad had told Bobby this time, but whatever it was evidently hadn’t been good enough. During the next couple of weeks, when no one else was around, Bobby kept pestering him to talk about what’d happened the weekend he’d visited his dad.

Meanwhile, Cas and he decided they would have their own little Thanksgiving. Neither of them had celebrated it in years, not having anyone to share the holiday with. Technically, Cas had _never_ had a proper Thanksgiving. He’d done church things before, but that’d been it. Apparently they didn’t celebrate holidays in that cult he’d grown up in. What the fuck? That meant no Christmas, no New Year’s Day, no Easter, no. . . well, Dean would have to rectify that.

It wasn’t as if Dean’s holidays had been fantastic, and since he’d moved out of Dad’s, he hadn’t exactly celebrated holidays, either. But at least he’d experienced them, even if holidays with Dad had been minimal.

For some damn reason, Cas wanted him to invite Bobby to join them for Thanksgiving. When Dean questioned him about why, he just said it would be _nice._ What the hell did that mean? 

So a couple of days before Thanksgiving, Dean found himself asking Bobby, “Do you have any plans for Thanksgiving? Me and Cas are gonna eat lunch at Biggerson’s then just chill. Probably with beer and football. Wanna join us?”

“I’m goin’ to see John for Thanksgiving,” Bobby replied. He gave Dean a pointed look. “You wouldn’t want to come, would ya?”

“No.” Dad wouldn’t misbehave with Bobby around, but Dean couldn’t stomach the idea of having to listen to whatever crap he spouted to Bobby. Yeah, he’d concluded his dad had pretty much been talkin’ out of his ass when he’d said all that shit here in front of him.

And on that night when he’d told Dean he loved him?

Fuckin’ lie. A lie that twisted inside like a knife, a lie that hurt even more than the freakin’ beating his dad had dealt him. Because it’d given him a false promise, false security.

Maybe he’d like to go so he could yell at the bastard.

But he wouldn’t, he knew. He’d back down. His dad had been through enough. He couldn’t add to it.

Bobby replied, “Thought not. Especially after, y’know . . . ” Dammit, here it came. “What happened that weekend, again?”

“Didn’t Dad tell you?” Dean retorted.

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Well, then. Whaddaya need me to tell you for?”

“I wanna hear your side.”

 _His_ side? What did Bobby suddenly need to hear his side for? He’d received all his Winchester news from John for years.

“Too bad. You’re not gettin’ it,” Dean said. “Have fun at Dad’s.”

Bobby appeared to be thinking. “Son, I do wanna see you on Thanksgiving. Tell you what. How about I come over for the football?”

“Okay.”

xxxxxxxxxx 

Castiel had never been to Biggerson’s. It wasn’t his type of restaurant, but it was the only restaurant open on Thanksgiving. Dean had said he wanted to show him a real Thanksgiving, but he was pretty sure most people’s real Thanksgivings weren’t spent at Biggerson’s. Weren’t they supposed to cook food at home? But Dean had insisted Biggerson’s worked just fine and there was no point in slaving over a stove for only two people. Castiel pointed out that he made food for just the two of them all the time.

“Cas, it’s a freakin’ holiday,” Dean had responded. “You’re supposed to relax, not spend time doing chores.”

Castiel hadn’t bothered to mention he liked cooking. He had a feeling that wouldn’t make Dean change his opinion about matters.

He was glad Bobby would be coming over later. Dean had been griping that Bobby wouldn’t shut up about the weekend he’d visited his dad. Castiel had known it just from his one encounter with Bobby: the man was concerned about Dean. He may be John’s friend, but he cared about John’s sons, too. Castiel had vowed he wouldn’t discuss the weekend with Bobby, but he thought Bobby deserved to know about it. Somehow, he’d ensure Bobby learned the truth today. Even if that meant breaking his promise.

Dean pulled his Impala into the Biggerson’s parking lot. It held only two other cars: a 1980s Datsun and an old rusty Mazda. Inside, the hostess, a teenage girl, showed them to a booth.

“Poor kid,” Dean remarked once the girl had left them. “I hope she’s getting paid good bucks.”

Castiel didn’t understand why it mattered that much. This really was just like any other day. But Dean, in his efforts to “educate” Castiel, had explained the significance of holidays. It wasn’t that Castiel had never heard of holidays, just that he hadn’t understood why everyone thought they were so special. Apparently, you weren’t supposed to work, and you weren’t supposed to worry about anything. You were supposed to only enjoy yourself. If those conditions weren’t met, Dean had said, then you weren’t having a real holiday.

He glanced around at the other customers. A young single mother sat with three small children at a table close by, and a man in his mid-fifties sat in a booth on the other side of the restaurant.

“You think that guy’s a drifter?” Dean posited.

“Why do you think he’s a drifter?” Castiel asked.

“Look at him. Eating alone in a Biggerson’s on Thanksgiving.”

“So?”

“So.” Dean sighed. “It was just a joke.”

“That could easily be one of us,” Castiel observed.

“Aren’t you a bundle of optimism.”

A bored-looking woman in her mid-forties approached them. “I’m Patty. I’ll be your waitress for today.” When she turned to Dean, she gasped. “Poor baby. What happened to your eye?” Dean cast his eyes down in embarrassment. His eye was no longer fused shut, but a black ring still surrounded it. “Just make sure you take good care of that,” she advised. “Now. What’ll y’all have to drink?”

“Water,” Castiel replied.

“Coke,” Dean said.

She made a notation on her pad. “All right. And I assume you boys’ll be wantin’ the Thanksgiving Special?”

“Yep,” Dean affirmed.

“Does the Thanksgiving Special have a salad?” Castiel inquired.

“No,” said the waitress.

“I want a salad.”

“Cas, people don’t eat salad for Thanksgiving,” Dean cut in.

He ignored Dean’s comment. “Can I have a salad?” he asked.

“Sure thing, honey,” the waitress said.

“Whaddaya want a salad for?” Dean asked once the waitress was gone.

“I need to get my vegetables for the day.”

“The Thanksgiving Special has vegetables. Green beans. Corn. Yams. Mashed potatoes.”

“Not lettuce.”

“The salads here probably aren’t very good,” Dean theorized.

Patty returned with their drinks and informed them their food should be out soon. Not long after, she placed one salad and one Thanksgiving Special on the table. “Enjoy,” she said before leaving them alone.

“Where’s my Thanksgiving Special?” Castiel wondered.

“Dude, you told her you wanted a salad,” Dean replied.

“I meant in addition to the Thanksgiving Special.”

“Oh. Don’t worry, you can have some of mine.” He gestured to the food on his tray. “Take whatever you want.”

Dean was about to take a bite of his food, but Castiel exclaimed, “Wait!” Dean froze. “We should give thanks unto the Lord.”

“What?”

“Pray,” Castiel translated.

“Seriously? In public?”

“Why not?”

“Why? You don’t pray over our meals at home.”

“It’s Thanksgiving. A day for giving thanks.”

“Huh.”

Castiel extended his hands across the table. “Join hands with me.”

“Nuh-uh. I don’t do this praying thing. You know that.”

He’d known Dean would be uncomfortable, but he wanted to do this anyway. It was important to show the Lord his gratitude. Dean was a significant part of his life now, a good friend, and the moment would mean so much more if he shared in it with him.

“Indulge me. Please?” Castiel implored.

“Fine,” Dean sighed as he took Castiel’s hands.

Castiel intoned, “Bless us, O Lord, and these your gifts which we are about to receive from your bounty through Christ our Lord. Thank you for this meal we share today. Thank you for your sacrifice. Thank you for the blessings you have bestowed on us. We render unto you our eternal gratitude. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.” _And thank you for Dean. For giving me a second chance to have a friend. Thank you for alleviating the void of loneliness I didn’t even know was there._

They released each other’s hands. “Can we eat now?” Dean asked.

Castiel smiled. “Yes, we can eat now.”

“Like I said, take whatever you want,” Dean reminded him through a mouthful of turkey.

Castiel ate a couple of bites then pushed his salad aside. “This lettuce is wilted.”

Dean snorted. “Weren’t you just thanking God for that salad?” Castiel frowned. He guessed he should be grateful for the salad. After all, there were millions of people who had less. He picked up his fork again and took a few more bites. The more he ate, the worse it tasted. “Cas. Seriously, man. You don’t have to eat that if you don’t want to.”

Ah. Another joke he hadn’t understood. At least Dean was nice about it.

He sampled every dish on Dean’s plate. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great, either. After they finished eating, Patty returned. “Will you boys be wantin’ pie?”

“God, yes,” Dean said.

“The special’s pecan.”

“We’ll have that, then.”

She glanced at Castiel, who nodded. “All-righty. Two pecan pies comin’ right up.”

After she brought them their slices of pie, Dean opined, “This is the best part of the meal.” Castiel ate half of his pie before he gave up on it. It wasn’t as good as the one at Rachel’s. “You’re not gonna finish that?” Dean said.

He slid the pie across to Dean. “It’s all yours.”

“What’s wrong with you? It’s pie.”

“I could make a better one.” He paused, an idea suddenly occurring to him. “I want to make a better one. Let’s make one when we get home.”

“You have the ingredients?”

“No. But we can buy them.”

“The stores are all closed.”

“Not Wal-Mart.”

“Nope, even Wal-Mart’s closed.”

“Walgreens is open.”

Dean chuckled. “You’re not gonna find stuff for pie at Walgreens.”

“Oh.” Castiel was crestfallen.

“Some other time, huh?”

xxxxxxxxxx

Watching football with Cas was exhausting. At least Bobby was there to balance out the madness.

“What makes this so exciting? They spend half their time standing around, and there are so many commercials.”

“What makes it a touchdown?”

“Why is that guy doing a silly-looking dance?”

“Why are they showing that play so many times?”

“Why do the announcers say so many irrelevant things?”

Dean actually agreed with that last one.

But God, it was like he was a freakin’ girl.

At halftime, they turned their attention away from the TV. Everyone opened a new bottle of beer, and Bobby said, “Let’s have a talk.”

“Okay,” Dean said. Why did he have to make an announcement?

“Cas, can you leave us for a sec?” Son of a bitch. The guy just wouldn’t give it up, would he?

Cas stood up, but Dean insisted, “Cas, sit down.” If he could keep Cas in the room, Bobby wouldn’t bring his dad up. Cas sank back into the couch, eyeing Dean. “Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of Cas,” Dean informed Bobby.

“ _Fine_ ,” Bobby grumbled. “Then let’s have it. What happened between you and your dad a couple of weekends ago?”

“Dad told you.”

“Your dad didn’t tell me shit.” Dean gaped at him.

“What? I thought you asked him,” Dean said.

“No.” Dean continued to stare at him in confusion. “I know there’s somethin’ you’re keepin’ from me, and I ain’t hearin’ it from your dad. I’m not stupid, Dean. When he came to the garage, you were hidin’ from him—”

“No, I wasn’t!” Dean protested.

“Sure you weren’t,” Bobby scoffed. “I thought it was just ’cause of your grudge. But then when you came to the shop next week lookin’ like you did . . .  ”

“I told you; it was a bar fight”

“A bar fight. Right.” Bobby stood up from the recliner. “I’m gonna take a piss. When I come back, boy, I don’t wanna hear another lie outta your mouth.” _Boy_. He shuddered inwardly, recalling all the venom his dad had always poured into that word.

When Bobby left the room, Cas scooted closer to Dean on the sofa. “Dean,” he said. “You should tell Bobby.”

Dean gazed at Cas in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?”

“Bobby cares for you. He should know the truth.”

“He’s Dad’s friend.”

“He’s your friend, too.”

“Only because he’s Dad’s.”

“Tell him. Or I will.”

“What? No. You promised.”

“Some promises need to be broken.”

How was that priestly? Treasonous bastard. “No. Not this one.”

“If you were Bobby, wouldn’t you want to know?”

Dean had no response to that. Would he? Of course he would. He hated being lied to. But he also wouldn’t like discovering something terrible about his friend. Besides, this was different. John Winchester was not a bad man, just a victim of circumstance. It wasn’t fair to deprive him of what little comfort he had.

Bobby returned and resumed his spot in the recliner. “Well, son? Give it up.” Cas gave him a sharp look.

Okay. He had to tell Bobby. At least a little bit. Better he hear it from him than Cas, who’d probably exaggerate everything. “First things first,” Dean replied. “You gotta promise not to tell Dad.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Is that really necessary?”

“ _Yes_.”

“All right, fine.”

“Say you promise.”

“I promise. Happy?”

“Okay. Dad and I got into an argument. That’s all there is to it.” That was sort of true. They’d disagreed about the demon’s existence.

“I didn’t see your dad with any bruises.”

“That’s because he won the argument.”

“Right.”

“That’s not it at all,” Cas interrupted.

“Cas--!” Dean exclaimed.

“You know about this?” Bobby asked Cas.

“You should have seen him when he came home that night.”

“ _Cas_ —”

“So it was your old man.”

“No one said that—”

“Yes,” Cas affirmed.

“Why?” Bobby inquired.

“I upset him.”

“Dean, that’s no excuse,” Cas cut in.

“I deserved it.”

“ _Dean_ —”

“ _What?_ ” Bobby spat. 

Cas placed a hand on Dean’s arm. “Dean, you certainly don’t deserve it.”

Dean shrugged him off. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me,” he warned. He regretted the words when he saw the flash of hurt in Cas’s eyes. Yeah, he was a dick all right. He deserved everything his dad had ever done to him.

“How long has this been goin’ on, son?”

“What?”

“With your dad.”

“Nothin’s been goin’ on—”

“Bullshit.”

The cacophony of voices had been causing Dean’s head to spin, and now it had grown into full-on panic. His fuckin’ traitorous eyes were filling with tears. He did his best to hold them in, but three rogue droplets spilled out. He felt the pressure of Cas’s hand on his arm once more, and he drew strength from it. He fixed a determined gaze on Bobby. “Why do you think,” he declared, his voice firm, “that Sam never talks to Dad anymore?”

“What?” Bobby responded. “Of course Sam talks to John.”

“Oh, yeah? Then how many kids does Sam have?”

“Huh? Sam doesn’t have any children.”

“Wrong. He has a daughter. She's six months old. Mariana.”

Sam didn’t talk to Dean much, but he did send him occasional updates via email. The last one had come two months ago. He’d attached a few pictures of Mariana, and Dean was a little disappointed he’d never get to meet his niece. For Sam had made it clear: he never wanted to see Dean, though he’d agreed to keep him posted.

Dean understood. Sam was flourishing on his own. No need for him to be saddled with his messed-up brother and dad.

Sam hadn’t even invited Dean to his wedding, and that had hurt. He’d sent him photos three months after the event, and the wedding had looked nice. It’d been on a freakin’ beach, and everyone seemed like they were having fun. Sam and Jess (who, unfortunately, he’d never get to meet, either) made a gorgeous couple.

Ah, that hurt. That really, really hurt. He would’ve liked to see his little brother get married. If he had been allowed to see Sam one more time after he’d left for college, he would’ve chosen that moment. Maybe Sam had thought Dean would bring Dad along, but he wouldn’t have. He would’ve wanted his brother’s wedding to be perfect, and Dad was too volatile.

Well, Sam’s wedding had been perfect. Without Dean.

“Jesus,” said Bobby. “So are you tellin’ me . . . your dad always . . . no.”

“ _Yes_.”

“Those bruises when you were a kid—”

“Not just from runnin’ around in the woods.”

“Jesus.” Bobby appeared pensive. “I can’t believe I never noticed,” he commented, his voice drenched in guilt.

“We made sure you never noticed.” Bobby gave him a blank look. “I kept Dad’s secrets. I made sure Sam kept them, too.”

“Christ.”

Dean felt as if he’d lathered himself in shame. Bobby’s opinion of John would change, and it was all his fault. He had stolen his dad’s last pleasure in life.

“Don’t tell Dad,” he beseeched. 

Bobby’s face darkened. “I’d like to give John a piece of my mind,” he said in a low voice.

“No. Please. No,” Dean begged. “You’re all he has left. Please.” _He should have me, too, but I’m not strong enough. Oh, God, I’m not strong enough. I wish I were. I wish I could be a better son._

“Fine. But, _hell_. What about you?”

“What about me?” Dean repeated dismissively.

“Don’t you ever think about yourself?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“ _It matters_ ,” Cas asserted, and damn, Dean hadn’t thought it was possible for a voice to be so intense.

“I agree with Cas,” Bobby said with a grim smile.

A few stray tears escaped from Dean’s eyes, but these were tears of thanks. Cas and Bobby’s words had warmed him. He still didn’t feel worth it, but he would accept them. Cas and Bobby offered him grins that seemed to understand his gratitude.

“The game’s back on,” Bobby observed.

“Finally,” Dean sighed. The three of them returned to their beer and snacks.

“Why—” Cas began five minutes later.

“Shut up, Cas,” Dean joshed him. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first part of Cas's prayer is the traditional grace said before a meal. The part that begins with "thanks," until "in the name of" is not taken from any traditional prayer.
> 
> The second conversation with Bobby was hard for me to articulate, so I hope it works.
> 
> And of course, thanks for reading!


	12. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.
> 
> We're skipping ahead a month here. I'm a little worried about this pacing, but I wanted to go on to Christmas.

At closing time on December 23, Bobby and Dean were the only ones left in the shop. Dean told Bobby to wait a second and retrieved something from the Impala. “Merry Christmas, Bobby,” he said as he handed the item to him.

“What’s this?” Bobby responded as he accepted the gift.

“You’ve never seen a pecan pie before?” Bobby rolled his eyes. “It’s from me and Cas. He made it. It’s fuckin’ delicious. Best pecan pie I’ve ever had.”

“Uh-huh,” Bobby muttered with a hint of uncertainty.

“Just try it and see. Here, I’ll get you a fork.” Dean went to the breakroom and returned with the utensil, which he passed to Bobby. “Don’t worry. I made sure I got a clean one.”

Bobby took a cautious bite and chewed. “Mmmm,” he mumbled.

Dean beamed. “It’s amazing, right?”

“Your priest did a damn good job,” Bobby agreed. He dropped the pie and fork onto the front desk. “Hold on. I’ve got somethin’ for you, too.” He reached for the cabinet door underneath the desk and pulled out two things, an envelope and a box wrapped in plain brown paper. He slid the envelope across to Dean. “This one’s from me.”

Dean tore open the envelope and discovered five twenty-dollar bills. “Wow, Bobby. I don’t know what to say,” Dean remarked.

“How about thanks?”

 “Yeah. Thanks.” He placed the envelope back on the countertop and picked up the box. “What’s this?”

“It’s from your old man. I told him I’d give it to ya.”

“What?” Dean said softly.

Bobby directed a worried look at him. “You don’t have to open it if you don’t want to. I wasn’t even sure if I should give it to ya, but I did give John my word.”

Dean frowned down at the present. “No. It’s fine.” He raised his eyes to Bobby. “Can I open it later? When I’m alone?” He had no idea what his dad might possibly want to give him, and if it was the wrong sort of thing . . . well, he wouldn’t like Bobby to see.

“Sure, son. Merry Christmas. See you after the holiday.”

“But we haven’t finished cleaning up yet.”                                                                          

“I’ve got it. Go.”

Dean tendered Bobby his good-byes then drove home. Cas’s car wasn’t in the driveway, so he’d be able to open Dad’s gift without any prying eyes.

Once inside, he deposited the box on the kitchen table, sat down, and stared at it for a while. He was afraid to open it, but he was also oh so curious.

He had an ominous feeling about it all. He hadn’t received a Christmas present from his dad since he was twelve. Thereafter, Dad had claimed Dean was too old for that shit.

Finally, he took a deep breath and began unwrapping the item, proceeding slowly. The cardboard box under the wrapping paper was sealed with duct tape. He used his pocketknife to rip open the box, revealing what was inside.

A dagger with a note under it.

 _His_ dagger. A simple wooden handle and a sharp, shiny blade. The first one his dad had given him. He’d been six. That had been when Dad started training him. He’d forced him to practice for hours on end with that dagger, throwing it at targets and trees. Every time Dean had nicked himself and cried in pain, his dad had told him to stop being a pussy and get back to practicing. Dean still had a small scar on his right thumb, a scar he’d acquired the first day he’d handled the weapon.

He put the dagger aside and picked up the note.

_Never forgive or forget._

The piece of paper slipped from his fingers. It felt like there was too little oxygen in the air.

He barely registered the sound of the front door, not realizing Cas had walked in until he stood across from him.

“Dean?” Cas ventured. “What’s wrong?” His eyes fell on the objects on the table. “What’s that?”

Dean merely gazed back at him with wide eyes. Cas strolled over to the table and examined the dagger and the note. “Oh, Dean,” Cas intoned, his face pale. He quirked an eyebrow. “Your father sent you this?”

Dean hefted the dagger in one hand. “He gave this to me when he first started talking about the demon. When he taught me about how the demon had murdered Mom and how it was our job to kill it.” He glanced up at Cas. “Why would he want me to have it now?”

“I don’t know, Dean.”

“What does he want from me?” Dean whispered.

“I don’t know.” Cas bent down and embraced him. “But don’t think too much about it,” Cas murmured into his ear. He drew back and looked into Dean’s eyes. “Okay?”

Dean nodded, his bleak smile reflecting Cas’s.

xxxxxxxxxx 

With all his Christmas duties at the church, Castiel’s day had been a long one. But now that the day was almost over, the most exciting part was yet to come.

He felt a little guilty for that notion. His duty was to the Lord, not to Dean. Nevertheless, he’d been anticipating spending Christmastime with Dean, the Lord’s work taking second place in his heart.

When he walked into the living room, his eyes landed on the small Christmas tree on the end table to the right of the couch, and he smiled. It was the first Christmas tree he’d ever had in his home, and Dean and he had decorated it together, throwing on tons of tinsel and colored lights. Perhaps it was overdecorated, with barely any shoots of green visible, but it was perfect all the same. Two small wrapped gifts sat below the table.

“Merry Christmas, Cas,” Dean called from his perch on the sofa, a huge grin spreading over his features.

Castiel smiled back. “Merry Christmas, Dean,” he echoed. He took a seat next to Dean on the couch.

Dean stood up. “Hold on. I’m gonna get somethin’.” He returned from the kitchen a moment later with the remaining half of Castiel’s pecan pie and two forks. He resumed his seat on the sofa, placed the pie between them, and handed Castiel one of the forks. “Let’s do pie first.” They dug in, each one savoring the pie. Castiel had been right: his pie was much better than the one at Biggerson’s. It might even rival Rachel’s. But probably not. When they were finished, Castiel dropped his fork into the tin while Dean continued to scrape the bottom and Castiel watched.

“What?” Dean muttered. “I’m gonna get as much as I can.” After a few more minutes, Dean tossed the pie onto the coffee table and suggested, “Let’s do presents now?” Castiel nodded. “All right.” He retrieved the gifts from under the end table and passed one to Castiel. “Open yours first.”

Castiel picked at the wrapping paper until he revealed the object underneath. Disappointment flooded him. It was a snow globe. Wasn’t that the sort of thing you got someone you didn’t know much about? He’d thought Dean knew him better than this. Then again, he reminded himself, it wasn’t as if he’d ever received a Christmas gift before. He should be grateful that he was even getting anything.

Inside the snow globe stood a lighthouse. The snow globe could also play music, and when Castiel turned the switch, a lovely tune filled the room.

“Do you know what that song is?” Dean asked. Castiel shook his head. Dean’s smile grew wistful. “‘As Time Goes By.’ Mom used to sing me to sleep with it.” He blushed at the memory.

So it was a thoughtful gift after all. “Open yours,” he urged Dean.

Dean rapidly ripped off the wrapping paper and discovered his gift: a model of the exact same Impala that he drove. He grinned with amusement. “My baby had a baby!” he exclaimed.

Castiel let out a soft chuckle. “Come on. I’ll show you your real present.”

“What?” Dean mock-whined. “I don’t get to keep Baby’s baby?”

Castiel couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “Of course you get to keep it.”

“Her.” Castiel didn’t understand why Dean anthropomorphized the vehicle (as well as his larger Impala), but there was something charming about it.

Castiel led Dean to the spare bedroom and slowly twisted the doorknob. He hadn’t thought it possible, but he felt his grin widening as Dean stepped inside. “What’s this?” Dean gasped as he surveyed the fully furnished room.

“I should’ve done this a while ago . . . ” Castiel declared.

“This is mine?”

“The whole room is yours.”

Castiel followed Dean as he proceeded farther into the room and studied every object inside. Castiel had supplied it with a spacious wooden desk, a roomy, cushiony desk chair, a large wooden dresser, and a made-up bed, queen-sized like his own. Dean plopped down on the mattress and spread his limbs. “Is this memory foam?” he asked as he closed his eyes.

“Yes.”

“Fuck, I think I love memory foam.” He sat up and looked serious. “This is so much, Cas.”

“It’s just enough.”

Dean got back to his feet. “I told you I was staying for only a few days.”

“It’s been over two months.”

“So I could be leaving any day now.”

“No. I won’t let you.” Castiel could hear the fondness in his own voice.

“Oh, yeah? And how’re you gonna stop me?”

“I’ll tie you down if I have to.”

Now Dean was standing close to him, and Castiel could feel his breath on his temple as Dean spoke. “Yeah? I’d like to see you try,” he said, a playful challenge in his voice. Then he meandered past Castiel back into the hallway. “C’mon, I’ve got somethin’ else for you, too.”

“What?” Dean strolled through the living room and the kitchen to the front door, Castiel not far behind. Eventually they reached Dean’s destination, which was the Impala. Dean grabbed an item from the backseat and held it up in front of him. Castiel gaped at it.

“And you thought all I got you was a snow globe,” Dean commented wryly.

Castiel examined the tall rectangular antique mirror in Dean’s hands. All four sides were in a silver filigree pattern, and the corners each contained a silver fleur-de-lis.

He glanced into Dean’s eyes and almost became lost in them. In the dark under the streetlight, hazel flecks danced in green pools, and Castiel felt as if he’d entered a magical universe.

He imagined Dean’s skin on his, their souls melding, forming a newfound warmth and ecstasy he could scarcely comprehend.

The idea shocked him, and suddenly he wished he could disappear. The way he’d just been thinking about Dean was _wrong_. Dean would be mortified if he knew. But more importantly, it was a sin. Lust was a sin. (For that was what it had been, wasn’t it? Lust?) Lust for someone of the same sex indicated deviance. And in a person of his station, any lust whatsoever was beyond sinful.

But there’d been more than lust there. He knew there’d been, though he couldn’t quite grasp what it was.

“Cas?” Dean frowned. “What’s wrong? You don’t like it? I can return it and—”

“No,” Castiel interrupted him. He smiled, hoping that would reassure Dean. “It’s beautiful.” _You’re beautiful_.

Dean breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. I found it in an antique shop, and it made me think of you. And I ruined that other mirror of yours, so . . . ” A blush infused his cheeks.

Castiel ran his hands over the top of the frame. “This one is much better,” he opined. “Thank you, Dean.” Castiel carried the mirror as they trotted back inside. When they reached the living room, Castiel leaned the mirror against the couch and declared, “I’m going to hang it up in here.” He exited the room and came back with the tools for that purpose.

“You’re gonna do that now?” Dean inquired.

“Why not?” While he contemplated how best to begin the task, he placed the snow globe on the empty end table. A moment later, Dean set the model Impala next to the snow globe.

Castiel started taking the mirror’s measurements. Dean observed him for a minute then asked, “Can I help?”

“Yes.”

xxxxxxxxxx 

Dean wanted to make sure Cas had a good time on New Year’s Eve since he’d never celebrated it before. He knew that traditional pursuits (i.e., partying and drinking) would probably not satisfy Cas, and he was also afraid to revisit such territory because of what’d happened at Harvelle’s Roadhouse. So he decided to take Cas to the town’s fireworks show and then watch TV with him until midnight.

He hadn’t been to the fireworks show in years. In fact, he’d been only been once, and over the past few days he’d been anticipating the event more than he would’ve cared to admit. He was too old to get excited about this kind of shit.

The one time he’d gone to the show, he’d taken Sammy. All throughout his childhood, Dean had always wanted to see the show, but Dad would never take him, jeering anytime Dean requested to go. So when Dean finally had his driver’s license and his own car, he insisted on taking Sam to the show. Sam had griped the whole time, complaining that, at twelve, he was too old to be impressed by a lame fireworks show. But being sixteen, Dean had needed _some_ excuse to go, and Sammy was it. Afterward, he let Sam buy a few fireworks of his own, and they found an abandoned field to set them off in. Sam had enjoyed that part of the night much more. In order to buy the fireworks, Dean had stolen a little money from his dad’s wallet. When Dad discovered the missing money, as Dean had known he would, he’d been pissed. They’d been practicing with their swordplay when Dad brought up the matter. Caught off guard, Dean had sustained a cut to his torso, and of course Dad wouldn’t let him pause and staunch the blood flow. “ _Buck up_ ,” he’d seethed. But it’d been worth it to see Sam happy.

Dean drove down to the park where the show would take place. After circling around the vicinity for what felt like hours, he found a spot in the grass to pull into. They were wedged in between two families with small children. They tumbled out of the car, Dean grabbing two Cokes. He’d brought beer as well, but he felt a little iffy about consuming it with those kids nearby.

Dean hoisted himself onto the hood of the Impala and reached out a hand. “Join me, Cas.” Cas clung to his hand as he sloppily jumped onto the hood, eventually finding his balance with Dean’s help. Dean flashed a teasing grin. “We can’t all have my finesse.” He passed a Coke to Cas and twisted the cap off of his own.

Cas frowned. “Carbonated soda is very unhealthy.”

Dean snorted. “And beer isn’t?” Cas gave him a blank look. “You’ve had beer. You drink beer.” He recalled a conversation at the beginning of their acquaintance; they’d been at Rachel’s, and Cas had insisted he didn’t drink. But he did now, even if it was only a little. What a great influence Dean had been. He laughed, and Cas wrinkled his brow.

“What?” Cas asked.

“Remember when you said you didn’t drink?” Cas seemed to be searching his memory, and after a moment, he nodded. “Well, look at you now. You’re different.”

Cas’s grin contained a hint of mischief. “I suppose you’ve corrupted me, Dean Winchester.”

“Damn right.” Cas opened his Coke and took a sip, a hint of pleasure playing on his lips. “Good, huh?”

“It appears I have been missing out on some tasty beverages in my life,” Cas conceded. “I am looking forward to these fireworks.”

“You’ve seen fireworks before, right?” Surely he had? But suddenly, Dean wasn’t so certain.

“Yes, I have.” But something in Cas’s air seemed evasive. He blushed. “On TV.”

“Seriously? You’re kidding, right?” Cas shook his head. Dean supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. Hell, Cas had missed out on a lot of essentials in life. Besides, Dean himself had never seen fireworks in person until he was sixteen.

When the fireworks display commenced, they ceased all conversation and stared up at the sky. The bright colors were mesmerizing, hues of greens and reds and purples and blues and golds, all of them spiraling in dazzling patterns, so close that the eye struggled to absorb it all. He leaned back as he watched, sprawling out, while Cas remained upright and rigid in his posture.

“That was wonderful!” Cas enthused when the presentation was over.

“It was,” Dean agreed, aware that his smile was wide enough to rival the grins of the children nearby. No doubt he looked like a dork, but he didn’t care.

“Thanks for bringing me, Dean.”

“Not the same as on TV, huh?”

“The TV doesn’t do justice to it,” Cas concurred.

A breeze blew, lending a frosty chill to the air. Dean pulled his leather jacket tighter around himself. Soon, they were back inside the Impala, and with that came warmth, thank God.

When they arrived home, Dean told Cas to find them something to watch while he gathered snacks and beer. To his dismay, as he traipsed into the living room with supplies, he discovered Taylor Swift strutting around on the TV. He sank into the sofa and grumbled, “Seriously, Cas?”

“What?” Cas responded.                                                                                                                       

“You want to watch Taylor Swift screech about how she’s never getting back together with Jake Gyllenhaal or whoever her latest boyfriend was?”

“This is _New Year’s Rockin’ Eve_. Isn’t that what people watch on this day?”

“Yeah, preteens and old people.” He snatched the remote from Cas. “Here. Let me find something. Too bad you don’t have cable; then we could watch the _Twilight Zone_ marathon on the SyFy channel.” He found a black-and-white movie on some random local channel and stopped there. “This is good.”

“What is it?”

“ _Freaks_. Classic fuckin’ awesome horror movie.”

“This isn’t all that horrifying,” Cas opined after a few minutes. A little bit later, he pointed out, “This doesn’t seem very PC.”

“It isn’t,” Dean replied. “It’s always been controversial. Some people think it exploits the carnies, but there’s also a message of, like . . . not judging by appearance. About how what makes someone a monster isn’t on the outside but on the inside.” Oh, God. He’d just let out his inner geek.

“I like that. About not judging,” Cas decided. Dean realized he shouldn’t have been that embarrassed; after all, this was _Cas_ he’d been talking to. A friggin’ weirdo priest.

When the film was over, Cas concluded, “That movie was strange.”

“That’s what makes it so awesome.” It was only eleven-thirty, and a new film began to play. _The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari_.

“Where’s the dialogue?” Cas wondered.

“This was made in, like, the 1920s. Movies didn’t have sound back then.”

“But there’s music.”

“Yeah. That was added in later. When they used to show these movies in the theaters, there’d be, like, a person in the room playing the piano. As a soundtrack. So nowadays they have a soundtrack, too.” Why did he know that?

“Oh,” Cas yawned.

“Don’t go to sleep yet,” Dean cautioned. “You don’t want to miss the New Year.”

Cas closed his eyes. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

But one minute to midnight, and sure enough, Cas was asleep. Dean sighed and looked down at him fondly. When midnight struck, Dean raised his beer bottle and whispered, “Happy New Year, Cas.” He drained the bottle, and Cas stirred in his sleep, rolling over until his head rested on Dean’s shoulder. Dean ran a tentative hand through Cas’s hair. He kissed Cas on the forehead and smiled.

His smile froze.

It hit him: he _wanted_ Cas. Very much.

Cas would be disgusted if he knew. Dean would lose the best friend he’d ever had.

xxxxxxxxxx

Over the next few weeks, Castiel hit his knees every night, praying fervently for the Lord to extract the lust from his heart, to save him from temptation. Instead, the seed grew stronger, so strong that he wasn’t sure what was right or what was wrong anymore. He _understood_ that his desires were wrong, but they also _felt_ so right. He was ashamed of his weakness, and what was more, he didn’t comprehend it. He’d always believed he was asexual, as he’d never experienced such cravings before.

Meanwhile, Dean cursed himself for his own similar desires. He’d never been attracted to a man until now. And this man was a priest, of all things, probably the most straight-laced priest to ever walk the planet. This priest would _never_ return his desires and feelings; rather, he’d probably condemn Dean for them. Rightfully so. His impulses were depraved.

Each man continued to inhabit his tormented state of mind and hide it from the other until January 24, the day that changed everything for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading as well as for all feedback!


	13. Body and Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.
> 
> I hope there's been enough build-up for what's coming here . . .

Dean flipped channels, trying to find something at least mildly interesting to watch. Network television sucked when it wasn’t primetime. There wasn’t anything on other than the local news, paid programs, gospel shows, and sitcom reruns. He settled on one of the news programs but didn’t pay much attention, letting his mind wander. He dimly perceived the sound of Cas opening the front door, but he didn’t think much of it when Cas didn’t come greet him as he usually did.

“Dean!” Cas eventually called from the kitchen. “Will you come in here?”

“What is it?” Dean grumbled.

“Just come in here. Please.”

“All right.”

When Dean entered the kitchen, tiny bits of shiny color flew onto him, and Cas shouted, “Happy birthday, Dean!”

Dean wiped his face. “Did you just throw _confetti_ at me?” he asked.

“I thought it would be fun,” Cas explained with a twinkle in his eye. The man Dean had first met would’ve never done or said such things. Maybe he was learning too much from Dean. It was fucking irritating to have things tossed at him like that.

“Yeah, well. Ha, ha,” Dean responded. He glanced at the kitchen table; there were two balloons tied to each chair. On the table itself, he spotted a small wrapped box and a pie with two candles, a “three” and a “one.” He blushed; this was all so much attention. “How’d you know it was my birthday?”

“Bobby told me.”

“Of course he did,” Dean muttered. He said more loudly, “Not that I’m not appreciative or anything, Cas, but I haven’t celebrated my birthday in years . . . ” Or ever. Okay, so he had. But once he turned six, his birthdays always consisted of his dad buying him a new weapon. Not that weapons weren’t cool or anything; it was just that birthdays had never been about him, not really. “It’s just not something I do.”

“All the more reason for us to celebrate now. You deserve a special day.” Dean felt himself growing redder at the sentiment. Cas sat down, and Dean followed suit; then Cas flicked on the lighter in his hand and touched it to each of the candles. “Should I sing ‘Happy Birthday’?”

Dean chuckled. “No, you don’t have to do that.”

Cas grinned mischievously. “I think I should.”

“No. Please, no.”

“Yes.” And Cas sang the words. His tone wasn’t serious, but Dean could still hear it: Cas had a beautiful singing voice. “Now, blow out the candles and make a wish,” Cas urged. 

What should he wish for? Dean didn’t know. He felt happy, genuinely happy, for the first time in years. Perhaps even since before Mom had died. He wanted only for the happiness to continue.

That’s what he wished for.

After he blew out the candles, Dean lamented, “I’m thirty-one, and I’ve got jack shit to show for it.” He cast his eyes down and picked at the edge of the table. “I’m worse than useless.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say such things about yourself,” Cas said softly. Dean looked up at him. “I . . . I think you’re a good person.”

Dean snorted. “I don’t believe in God. Don’t people like you think people like me are going to hell?”

“No.” Cas frowned. “Maybe. Maybe they do. But that’s not how I think. I think that . . . well, God isn’t what most humans make Him out to be. Because if God works in mysterious ways . . . ” He spread his hands out in an all-encompassing gesture. “God’s will isn’t man’s will, or what man thinks God’s will is.”

“Then how do you know what’s right?”

“You feel it in your heart.”

No. It couldn’t be like that. Darkness often lived in people’s hearts. “Not always.”

Cas shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers.”

“But you’re a freakin’ priest.” Dean wondered why he was even debating this when he didn’t believe in anything they were talking about.

“It doesn’t mean I’m privy to all of God’s secrets. If anyone tells you otherwise, they’re lying. Or ignorant.” Dean remembered his second morning here, when Cas had told him a little about that cult and their leader. Uriel. He understood why Cas believed what he’d just expressed. Uriel had claimed he spoke directly to God, and it had brought Cas a world of hurt.

Yet Cas was the strongest person he knew. He’d been through so much, yet he was still so _good_. _Why would he say that_ I _, of all people, am good?_ It was beyond him.

“Open your present,” Cas suggested.

In the box, Dean found a leather cord with a silver amulet. He pointed at the symbol, an “x” with a line through it and a “p” on the top. “What’s this?”

“It’s a chi-rho.” Dean stared at him blankly. “It’s an old christogram, a sort of Christian symbol—”

“I’m not a Christian,” Dean protested.

“Yes, I know. But before it was a Christian symbol, it was a pagan symbol. They used it to denote a particularly important passage in manuscripts. Some people also think it was the symbol for Chronos, the Greek god of time.” He paused before concluding, “I thought, with all these connotations, the chi-rho could symbolize our friendship.”

Wow. Cas knew a lot of shit. And the idea, well . . . it was sweet. Dean didn’t normally go for sweet, but he couldn’t resist it in Cas. What he felt was too deep to process or articulate, so instead he remarked, with a smirk, “Are you calling me a pagan?”

“What? No.”

“Sure you’re not. You just said this thing was you and me, Christian and pagan.”

Cas blushed. “Okay. Maybe. But I didn’t mean it as an insult—”

“I know you didn’t.” Cas was cowering before Dean. What was wrong with him? Why did he have to be such an ass? He slipped the necklace over his head and clasped the amulet in one hand. “I like it. A lot. Thank you.”

Cas relaxed and offered up a tiny smile. “I’m glad you like it. Now. We should eat some pie.”

“God, yes.” He watched as Cas retrieved two plates, two forks, and a knife. “Why’d you get me a pie, anyway? You _do_ know people buy cakes for birthdays?”

“Yes, Dean,” Cas huffed. “I’m not an imbecile.” He placed the dishes and cutlery on the table. “But I know you like pie infinitely more than you like cake. I thought it was a better choice.”

“Damn right it was,” Dean agreed as Cas cut two pieces of pie. Cas passed one of the plates and a fork across the table and waited for Dean to dive in before taking a bite himself. With the first taste, Dean decided that this apple pie was friggin’ amazing. After he’d eaten a little more, he declared, “This. Is fuckin’ awesome. Where’d you get it?”

“I made it,” Cas answered. His entire countenance reddened. Like, everything. Including his ears and neck. How could he be so adorable?

“Well. Doesn’t surprise me. Everything you make is so damn good.” Dean marveled as Cas somehow turned a deeper shade of red. He gobbled down the rest of his pie then watched Cas, who was proceeding at a much slower pace, eat his. He noticed that pie crust trailed from the corner of Cas’s mouth to his chin. Dean pointed at it. “You’ve got somethin’ there.”

“Where?” Cas asked, scrubbing too far to the left.

Dean touched the same corner of his own mouth. “Here.” Cas wiped off the crumbs near his mouth, but there were still some around his chin. “There’s more,” Dean informed him.

“Where?” Cas swiped at every part of his face except for where the crumbs actually were.

“Here,” Dean laughed. “Let me.” He reached across the table and brushed his fingers over Cas’s chin until the pie debris was gone.

Then he noticed how close Cas’s lips were.

Scarcely conscious of his action, he swept his fingers over Cas’s lips as he tried to stave off the temptation to do something else.

But the temptation was too strong.

He leaned in and planted a kiss on Cas’s lips. A second later, the enormity of his mistake hit him, and he quickly pulled away.

Oh, God. _Oh, God._ He’d kissed a priest. And not just any priest. Cas. _Castiel_. If he hadn’t thought Dean was going to hell before, no doubt he did now.

He probably wanted Dean out of his sight. He probably didn’t want to allow someone so rotten to stay in his home.

Why did he _always_ have to screw everything up?

“Cas,” he began, his voice thick, “I’m sorry—”

“Dean—”

“I’m _so_ sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, I—” As he realized all that he was about to lose, tears sprang to his eyes, and he held them in so tightly that he could no longer see.

“Dean—”

“I’m _so, so_ sorry. I shouldn’t have, I didn’t mean—” His vision cleared as the tears spilled out of his eyes.

“ _Dean—_ ”

“I’m sorry,” Dean breathed, his throat feeling constricted. Cas was running two fingers over his lips, no doubt rubbing the taint off of them.

“Don’t be,” Cas whispered as his fingers reached the other side of his mouth. He lowered his hand.

“What?” Dean whispered back. That was the last thing he’d expected Cas to say.

“Don’t be sorry,” Cas whispered again. Call him crazy, but Dean thought he saw an invitation in those wide blue eyes.

He kissed him again.

This time, for much longer.

Once he drew back, he panted, “You’ll tell me if you want me to stop?”

“I don’t think I ever want you to stop,” Cas murmured in that sexy gruff voice of his. Dean didn’t realize his cheeks were drenched in salty moisture until he felt Cas’s fingers dabbing at the halfway dried tears.

He needed to be closer to Cas, much closer, so he stood up, yanked Cas to his feet, and pushed him against a wall. He pressed his lips to Cas’s more aggressively than he had earlier, his tongue prodding Cas’s lips, forcing them open. Cas shrank back a little, and Dean panicked, fearing he might be moving too fast.

“Should I stop?” he asked.

“No,” Cas sighed.

Dean resumed his earlier motion, allowing his tongue to explore the inside of Cas’s mouth. It tasted of apple pie and something else, a heavenly taste he knew to be essence of Cas. Cas’s tongue sought his, and after a second, Dean allowed it to enter his mouth. It moved tentatively, its motions more timid than Dean’s had been.

“You can go harder,” Dean said against Cas’s mouth, his words barely understandable.

Cas pulled back and replied, “I like it like this.”

“Should I be gentler?”

“No. I like it both ways.” Dean snorted.

He let instinct take over. He grabbed Cas’s wrist, dragged him to his bedroom, and shoved him down on the glorious memory foam. “What’re you doing?” Cas inquired.

“Taking you,” Dean replied as he straddled Cas. He looked away, suddenly feeling shy. “If that’s okay.” He returned his gaze to Cas.

“Does that indicate having sex?”

Dean rolled his eyes at Cas’s ignorance then blushed. Putting it so bluntly . . . it made him think more about what he was doing, and he became a little frightened. “Yes.”

Cas reached up for Dean, bringing his head down and placing his lips on Dean’s for a brief moment before muttering against his neck, “Yes, Dean. Take me.”

Oh, God, but Dean was so aroused. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes.” Once again, Cas’s breath prickled Dean’s neck.

“You know I’m going to corrupt you like a mother,” Dean warned.

Cas’s lips slid over his neck to his ear. Dean felt Cas’s tongue flick against it as he whispered, “Yes, Dean. Corrupt me. I want you to.”

Dean shivered, his desire growing. Everything felt surreal, like a dream. Because this? It couldn’t be real. Could it?

Yet somehow, it was.

As Dean leaned down, a few stray pieces of confetti fell from his chest onto Cas’s, the bright colors contrasting sharply with the black of his shirt. As Dean ripped off Cas’s collar and tossed it to the floor, Cas giggled, the sound unnatural. Giddy, nervous. “Is this too much?” Dean asked. “Should I stop?”

Cas offered up a crooked smile. “Maybe it’s too much. But I don’t want you to stop.”

“Good,” Dean breathed against Cas’s skin, his lips moving from the clavicle to the top of the neck, where he bit down until he drew blood then sucked, both the blood and the sensitive skin.

“Are you a vampire?” Cas laughed.

“Maybe,” Dean mumbled. “Maybe I’ll drain you.” The blood, like the inside of his mouth, tasted like essence of Cas.

Dean felt Cas sweep a hand through his hair. Again and again. He moaned into Cas’s skin. “Remember,” Cas said in a leisurely voice, “when you called me a vampire? For the Eucharist?”

Dean pulled back to grin at Cas. “I guess we’re both vampires,” he replied before returning to Cas’s neck. He sucked a trail from the bite back down to the clavicle. He unbuttoned the top of Cas’s shirt and glanced up at him, waiting for Cas’s nod of permission to proceed. When the shirt was undone, Cas sat up to shrug it off before lying down again. In that moment, Dean caught sight of several scars that scored his back. He placed a hand under Cas’s back and stroked it. “What’re all these?” he asked softly.

Cas appeared to be composing himself, and Dean was about to tell him he didn’t have to answer the question when he said, “Discipline. With the Brethren.”

“What?”

“I . . . They used switches to discipline the children.”

“Christ. I’m sorry.”

Cas’s smile was shaky. “It’s all right. It was a long time ago.”

Dean examined Cas’s torso, where more scars crisscrossed each other. He ran a hand from just above Cas’s pants up to his chest. “And these?”

“When I was with the Brethren . . . when I had doubts about what we were doing, about what I was doing, they had me do penance. To cleanse my mind. Self-flagellation in front of the community.” Dean gazed at him intently, every ounce of him absorbing Cas’s words. “Essentially, it means . . . I . . . in public. Whipping. Myself.”

“My God,” Dean whispered. He traced the “x” carved over Cas’s heart. “And this?”

xxxxxxxxxx 

Above him, Dean’s eyes were so kind. Castiel found himself voicing some of the secrets he’d kept for so long. When he felt a subtle weight lifting from his shoulders, he realized he’d _needed_ to let them out.

He told Dean the story of the “x.” About what the Next Level was, and his last days with the Brethren.

The members of the Next Level had driven to a town about an hour away from the compound. Some of them were assigned to panhandling, and some of them were assigned to handing out leaflets. Castiel was given a stack of pamphlets to take to the edge of town. By this point, he’d grown disillusioned with the Brethren, and he had no desire to distribute the leaflets.

But still, he was conflicted. His entire life had been spent with the Brethren, soaked in their teachings. Who was more likely to be wrong, a seventeen-year-old boy or a group whose leader talked to God? But did he really talk to God? Of course he did. Where else did Uriel get his Revelations?

But what if everything about the Brethren was a lie?

The notion scared him. And what’s more, it couldn’t be right. It went against everything he knew.

But how did he really know all that? Just because he’d been _told_? That’s what Balthazar had put to him, the kernel of doubt he’d planted. At the time, he’d argued with Balthazar, telling him he was wrong, _knowing_ he was wrong.

But even then, a small part of him had considered Balthazar’s words.

Now that Castiel had spent a year at the Next Level, he knew more about the Brethren, more that had watered the seed of doubt.

Had Uriel been right about Balthazar? No, he couldn’t believe it.

But he also couldn’t believe Balthazar had been right about the Brethren.

These contradictory thoughts swirled through his mind. He didn’t know what he was supposed to think anymore.

But he did know he didn’t like many of the missions he’d been sent on while at the Next Level. The true nature of some of these errands was often kept from the Brethren’s general populace. Why was that? Because they hadn’t earned Next Level membership, Uriel would say. But what if there was a darker purpose for the secrecy?

His steps brought him in front of a small church. He decided, instead of giving out the leaflets, he’d go inside and pray for God’s guidance. After sitting in the pew for a few minutes, he remembered that these places, Catholic churches, had confessional booths. He wanted to talk to someone, not be alone in this.

He found the confessional booth and slipped inside. “Hello,” Castiel said.

“Hello?” the priest responded in a surprised voice.

“Can I talk to you about something?”

“You’re not a Catholic, are you?”

“No, Father. That’s what I’m supposed to call you, right? Father?”

“Yes, my child.”

He held up one of the pamphlets to the grille. “I come from these people.”

“I can’t see that,” the priest replied.

“Oh. Well. I’m from the Angelic Brethren.”

“Who?”

Castiel held up the pamphlet again. “These people.”

“I can’t—oh, forget it,” the priest sighed as he threw open the grille, careful to avert his eyes from Castiel. He took the booklet and closed the grille. Castiel heard him flipping the pages. At last, the priest concluded, “So, you’re from some sort of cult?”

“What’s a cult?”

“Oh, my child,” the priest sighed. “Well, if you’re not a Catholic, what are you doing here?”

“Am I not allowed to be here?” Castiel suddenly panicked. “Should I leave?”

“No, no, my child,” the priest said in a soothing tone. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just that something must have brought you here today, and I’m wondering what that is.”

“It’s the Brethren, Father. They say they’re doing God’s work, but the things—the things they make me do, I don’t like them . . . ” Castiel began to cry.

“What do they make you do?”

Castiel poured out what’d been weighing on his heart for so long, weeping all the while. He left out a couple of the worst things, things he was sure the priest would more than hate him for, like Balthazar. But he mentioned everything else: the robberies, the kidnappings, the vandalisms. “And now,” Castiel concluded between his sobs, “I don’t know what I should do.”

“It’s not my place to tell you,” the priest replied. “You must make your own decisions. But I will say this. If everything is as awful as you claim it to be, why don’t you leave?”

“I can’t. They’ll find me and damn me,” Castiel explained. “Besides. I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“They can’t damn you. Only God has the power to do that.”

Castiel was confused until he realized that maybe this priest didn’t know what damning meant for the Brethren. “When they damn me, I die.”

“What?” the priest gasped. “Do you mean that they _kill_ you?”

“Yes.” Perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad after all. He’d be out of here, and he’d atone for what he’d done to Balthazar.

But he was a coward, and he didn’t want to die.

“Oh, my child. I will pray for you.”

“Thank you, Father.” But maybe the priest shouldn’t waste his time praying for him. He shouldn’t have come here.

But it was too late for regrets.

The priest blessed him, and Castiel left, throwing the pamphlets in the trash on his way out. He was already late for the meeting with the others.

“Where’ve you been, Castiel?” Uriel asked when Castiel showed up.

“I lost track of time. I’m sorry,” Castiel answered.

“Did you give out all the brochures?”

Castiel ventured a smile. “Of course.”

But that evening, Castiel learned no one had believed his lie. Unbeknownst to Castiel, one of the others had been sent to watch him and ensure he was following orders. This because they knew he still had the contamination inside him despite their best efforts to purify him. He was called to Uriel’s office, and when he arrived, Zachariah and Hester pinned him to the wall while Uriel interrogated him.

“What did you tell the priest? What did you tell him?” Uriel kept yelling. Zachariah held an angel-blade up to Castiel’s eye, threatening to tear it out if he didn’t talk.

At first, he maintained he’d said nothing, but they continued to shout at him, punch him, toss water on him. Zachariah wouldn’t stop waving the knife in front of his eyes, and eventually, after several hours . . . Castiel couldn’t stay silent anymore.

After everything had come out, Zachariah pushed him onto the ground and ripped his shirt off. He raised the angel-blade and slowly etched an “x” over his heart, which meant he’d been banished from the Next Level. Uriel informed him that if he ever pulled a stunt like that again, he’d be damned. Castiel remembered laughing hysterically at that. He didn’t care anymore.

They left him lying on the floor all night as he bled. In the morning, Uriel sent in his errand boy Samandriel to clean up.

Afterward, he heard worse news.

They’d burned down the priest’s church, punishing him for Castiel’s actions. The priest, Father Simon, was presumed dead.

Castiel fled the compound that night, the specter of damnation no longer a hindrance. If he stayed, he knew he’d be damned at some point anyway. As he jogged down the highway, a truck stopped next to him. The driver opened the door, and to Castiel’s surprise, it was Father Simon—he recognized him from the picture he’d seen in Uriel’s newspaper. “Get in,” he urged. Castiel obeyed. “You must be that boy from the cult.”

Shocked, Castiel inquired, “How do you know that?”

“A scared-looking teenager running out of their compound—who else would it be?”

“How do you know that’s the compound?”

“I saw them set fire to the church; then I followed them to see who the heck they were.”

Father Simon was afraid the Brethren would kill him if they knew he was alive, so he drove as far away as he could, to Maine. He found another church, and he let Castiel live with him for a year. He supplied him with a comfortable home, but he barely talked to him. Castiel knew it was because he blamed him for what’d happened to his old church. Meanwhile, Castiel studied the teachings of Catholicism and decided he wanted to serve God as a clergyman. Father Simon arranged a scholarship to a seminary, and Castiel became a priest.

“Bastards,” Dean whispered with venom. Castiel was trembling, and a tear escaped his eye. “Jesus, Cas. I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry I asked.”

Castiel wiped his eyes. “No. I’m glad you asked. It feels good to have someone know—to have someone know and not hate me.” He paused. “You don’t hate me, do you?”

“’Course not. Who could hate you for something like that?” Dean kissed the “x,” his lips lingering there for some time, his tongue tracing over it. Castiel’s breath hitched with the pleasurable sensation. Dean rolled his eyes up until they hit Castiel’s. “Who could hate you ever?” Castiel blushed.

Dean drew off his own shirt. Faded bruises and scratches and scars covered Dean’s torso, and no doubt there were some on his back also. Castiel knew there were too many stories to these, more than Dean could tell in a week, all surely involving his father. But there were two things Castiel was especially curious about. He placed a hand on the tattoo. “Tell me about this?”

Dean put a hand on top of Castiel’s, lacing his fingers through his. “Dad made me get it when I was seven. He said . . . he said it would keep me from being possessed by a demon.”

So it was another one of John Winchester’s brands. Castiel slid his hand to the burn, Dean’s coming along with it. “And this?”

“Dad poured acid on me once.” Dean said no more, and Castiel understood. Whatever had occurred, the memory didn’t need reliving.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel whispered as he touched his lips to the burn. Dean ran a hand through his hair; then Castiel felt him kiss the top of his head. Castiel pulled back and gazed into Dean’s eyes.

“You ready?” Dean inquired, a hand on the button of his jeans.

For once, Castiel didn’t have to ask for clarification. “Yes,” he breathed. This. Now. Everything. He wanted to merge himself with Dean, body and soul, and the want was all there was.

xxxxxxxxxx

After he unbuttoned his pants, Dean remembered that a couple of things were necessary. Cas’s eyes moved with him as he stood up and grabbed a bottle of lube and a towel from the top drawer of the dresser. When he returned to the bed, he kicked off his boots, which he’d just realized he was still wearing. Watching him, Cas pried off his shoes a second later and asked, his eyes on the lube, “What’s that for?”

“To keep you from bleeding, when . . . y’know.”

“When you penetrate me?” Cas bit back a smile, and _damn_ , Dean swore Cas was teasing him. He was pretty sure that Cas hadn’t needed to ask that question, as his voice had a faux innocence to it.

But the thing with Cas was you couldn’t be sure since he was so damn naïve.

So Dean nodded as he felt a blush spread over his cheeks. He unzipped his jeans unceremoniously and let them fall to the floor. He leaned forward and slowly tugged Cas’s zipper down then did the same with the pants themselves. He placed his mouth right under Cas’s belly button and trailed downward until he reached the top of Cas’s boxers. He yanked those down then tentatively took the tip of Cas’s dick into his mouth. Cas shuddered underneath him, and as he progressed upward, Cas’s gasps grew more breathless and desperate. “Dean, Dean, Dean,” he intoned. When he could tell Cas was about to come, he pulled his mouth away. “What did you do that for?” Cas whispered.

“You’re not comin’ ‘til I’m inside you,” Dean said. He rubbed some lube onto his hands then reached underneath Cas to lather some on his ass. “Gonna need to loosen you up first,” Dean muttered as he inserted a finger into Cas’s ass. Cas groaned as Dean’s finger moved inside him. Dean wasn’t entirely certain that Cas wasn’t in pain, so he reminded him, “If it’s too much, if it hurts, you’ll tell me to stop?” Cas nodded and raised his head off the bed, crashing his lips into Dean’s. He took Dean’s bottom lip between his and sucked, and now it was Dean’s turn to gasp. For someone with relatively little experience, Cas knew some fuckin’ sexy moves.

“I’m putting in another,” Dean announced against Cas’s lips as he pushed another finger into Cas’s butt. A little bit later, Cas’s muffled “oh” let him know he’d hit the prostate. Perfect.

Dean lifted himself up and threw his boxers off. He spread more lube on Cas’s butt just to be safe then lowered himself and said, “I’m—we’re—going to do this now. Okay?” Cas nodded. Dean wanted to observe every reaction of Cas's, so he maintained the missionary position. However, when he aimed for Cas’s ass, he missed, his penis touching Cas’s dick instead. Fuck, that was hot. Awkward, but hot. He took aim again and this time plunged into Cas’s ass. Cas let out a startled wail. He cradled Cas’s head under one hand. “Shhh,” he reassured him. “I’ve got you. Okay? I’ve got you.” He began moving at a leisurely pace so as to give Cas enough time to become used to the feel of Dean inside him. After a few minutes, Dean started stroking Cas’s dick. “Oh,” Cas moaned, his voice pure sex, his eyes, his whole face, given over to abandon. Fuck, but that was hot. He sped up his thrusts inside Cas, Cas bucking into him, and soon they were both shouting Dean didn’t even know what, it was just pleasure and sex and fucking, although fucking might be too crass a word for what they were doing, as when Dean fucked, it didn’t last nearly this long, and it didn’t have nearly this much . . . _power_.

Cas was chanting his name, _Dean, Dean, Dean_ , and Dean’s voice joined with his, _Cas, Cas, Cas_ , and then it became, _Castiel, Castiel, Castiel_.

Cas came first, his cum coating Dean’s hand and belly. A second later, Dean came inside Cas.

Dean used the towel to wipe himself off as he collapsed onto Cas. They clung to each other and took shallow breaths as they came down. Dean nibbled on Cas’s ear. “Fuck, Cas,” he half-murmured, half-laughed. Dean continued to lie atop Cas and propped his head up on his hands, which he’d folded on Cas’s chest. The necklace Cas had given him still hung from his neck, and the medallion was pressed between their chests. “Best. Birthday. Ever,” Dean proclaimed as he gazed down at Cas.

“That’s the first time I’ve ever done that,” Cas declared.

“What? Had sex with a guy? Yeah, me, too.” Dean blushed.

“No.” Cas flushed. “Had . . . sex. It’s the first time I’ve ever had sex.”

“Oh. Shit. And how old are you?”

“Thirty-two,” Cas admitted in a low voice.

Hell. He guessed he shouldn’t be too surprised. Cas had been a priest, or training to be one, since he was eighteen, and those Brethren people didn’t exactly seem like the type to tolerate fornication. Dean concluded, “Good thing I saved you from becoming the forty-year-old virgin.”

“I don’t understand that reference,” Cas said through a yawn.

“It’s a movie. We’ll watch it sometime.” Dean rolled over and lay beside Cas. Cas turned and nuzzled into his neck, and Dean slung an arm around his shoulders before closing his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like thirty-one might seem to be a random number. I originally meant for Dean to be turning thirty in this chapter, but then I realized Sam would still be in law school if that were the case, so I changed it. 
> 
> [This](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chi-rho) is the symbol on the necklace Cas gives to Dean.
> 
> I'm not sure if this chapter means the story should be rated "explicit" rather than "mature." I'm not certain if I know where that line is. If anyone has any insight into that, it would be appreciated.
> 
> I hope this chapter turned out all right . . . I'm always nervous about writing these types of scenes.
> 
> And of course, as always, thanks for reading!


	14. A Temple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.
> 
> I had a draft of this chapter completed a few days ago, but then my computer crashed. My computer was totally gone, so I had to buy a new one. I lost the last 600-ish words or so of this chapter and had to rewrite the last part. I hope everything turned out all right.

When Dean awoke, the sun was a bit brighter than it should be. He glanced at the clock across from him on the desk and muttered, “Son of a bitch.”

Both he and Cas were already very late for work. It was still hard to believe that last night had been real, but there was no denying it, what with Cas’s head pillowed on his chest and the fact that they were both . . . naked.

“Cas,” Dean shouted. “Cas.”

“Hmm?” Cas murmured.

“We’ve gotta go to work.”

Cas’s blue eyes popped open, and he smiled up at Dean. “Must we?”

Damn, but somehow he managed to do that adorable head tilt thing while lying down. “We must,” Dean answered before briefly touching his lips to Cas’s forehead.

“What time is it, anyway?” Cas muttered.

“Eight-thirty.”

Cas bolted upright, a slight panic overtaking his features. “Are you serious?”

“Yep.”

Cas hopped out of bed and ran a hand through his mussed hair. “I have to . . . I have to go.” He retreated to his room, and Dean rushed off to take a shower. He scrubbed as quickly as he could, assuring that no sign of last night would be apparent once he got to the garage. When he stepped out of the shower, he found that Cas had already left. In his room, he ignored the mess of clothes on the floor as he retrieved a clean shirt and some jeans.

When he arrived at the garage, it was already nine o’clock. “You’re an hour late,” Bobby pointed out.

“I know.” Dean stared down at the counter. “I’m sorry.”

“Aw, hell, son. It was your birthday. You get a pass. Just this once.” Dean raised his eyes to him. “So, how was it? Have a wild night with your priest?” Bobby joked.

Dean hoped he was successfully suppressing the blush he felt attempting to creep onto his cheeks. “It was good,” Dean answered.

“Happy to hear it. Cas was excited about your birthday, let me tell you. You’d think he never celebrated a birthday before,” Bobby chuckled. Dean felt a pang in his chest. Bobby probably wasn’t far off the mark. No wonder Cas had wanted to do stuff like throw confetti around.

Bobby pointed at the necklace. “What’s that?”

Dean had tucked the chi-rho underneath his shirt so that it lay against his skin, and now he pulled it out to show Bobby. “Cas gave it to me. His birthday present.”

“Huh. Weird design. What is it?”

“A chi-rho.”

“Am I supposed to know what that is?”

“Cas explained it to me. It’s, like, an old Christian symbol. And a pagan one.”

“Huh. Interesting. I guess.”

Dean slipped the amulet back underneath his shirt, treasuring its feel against his skin.

He hoped Cas didn’t regret last night. Because he sure as hell didn’t.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Castiel had fallen.

And the oddest part was, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

He’d made his own choice last night. Dean had given him ample opportunity to back out.

What he’d ended up doing with Dean was wrong, and he should be sorry, but he wasn’t.

He was glad. To know that Dean felt the same way about him as he felt about Dean . . .

Bliss.

Once at St. Francis’s, he headed straight for his office; he was too late for morning coffee. He propped the door open so Father Michael and Father Raphael would know he was there and sat down at his desk, examining the books and sheaf of papers spread over it. He was giving the homily this Sunday, and he’d been preparing for it all week. He planned to speak about redemption.

He resumed his work from where he’d left off yesterday, but he found his thoughts constantly drifting.

If . . . sex . . . with Dean was wrong, why hadn’t it felt wrong? His sins with the Brethren had felt wrong to him all along, so why didn’t this?

How had things gotten to this point?

He’d acquainted himself with Dean in order to help him. When he’d first met Dean, everything about him had seemed so . . . _lost_.

Then somehow they’d become friends, and now . . . whatever it was, it went far beyond friendship.

In the beginning, he’d thought that God had sent Dean in order for Castiel to save him.

But what if God had sent Dean to save Castiel himself?

The idea seemed absurd.

But before Dean . . . before Dean, he hadn’t really been _living_ , just going through the motions. He’d gone through life day to day, arriving at St. Francis’s by six a.m., eating meals when required, doing his work, staying at St. Francis’s until at least nine o’clock, sometimes all night.

It hadn’t been a bad sort of life, but there’d been no joy to it, either.

Only serving God had mattered. It was his penance for the awful sins he’d committed with the Brethren. He was lucky God had even provided him with a second chance, allowed one such as himself to carry out the Lord’s work.

That was enough. Castiel didn’t deserve anything else.

But what if God had gifted him an opportunity for happiness in the guise of Dean?

It was there in his notes about redemption and forgiveness. There was nothing God wouldn’t forgive if one’s heart was in the right place.

Still, Castiel couldn’t fathom it, the idea that God might have forgiven _him_.

Then there was the fact that lust was a sin, and if Dean was the object of his lust, surely he couldn’t be an instrument for his salvation. And the fact that Dean was a man made Castiel’s lust much worse.

“Lord, help me know what I should do,” Castiel muttered.

A knock jolted him out of his contemplations. Father Raphael stepped through the open doorway a moment later.

“You were late today, Father Castiel,” Father Raphael commented.

“Yes,” Castiel replied. “I’m sorry.”

Father Raphael stalked toward him until he stood inches from Castiel’s desk. “Some people are starting to talk.”

Castiel arched an eyebrow. “Talk? About what?”

“About you and Dean Winchester.”

Castiel felt his ears reddening. “What could anyone possibly have to say about us?”

Father Raphael picked at the end of Castiel’s desk. “They just think it’s . . . strange . . . that, of all people in town, he’s the one you choose to spend time with.”

“He’s my friend.” He realized, with a shock, that he’d never spoken the sentiment aloud until now.

Father Raphael gave him a disbelieving look. “I thought he was just your little project?”

“People aren’t projects, Father Raphael.”

Father Raphael snorted. “I question your taste in friends. You can’t find someone more suitable to your position?” he taunted.

Castiel experienced a surge of bravado. “Why are you always criticizing me?”

“What?”

“You never say a pleasant word to me.” Castiel instantly rued the words. He had no wish to initiate a confrontation with Father Raphael.

Father Raphael shrugged. “Okay. I’ll admit it. I don’t like you much.”

Castiel heard his own sharp intake of breath. That he had not expected to hear. It was blunt, even for Father Raphael. “What?” he whispered.

Father Raphael slid toward him until he stood flush with Castiel’s chair. He turned steady eyes to Castiel. “Because you’re so _good_.”

“What?” Weren’t they supposed to be good?

“Yes. There’s no way anyone is that good. You must have quite the skeleton collection in your closet. Then you go around acting like you’re better than everyone . . . ”

Castiel gaped at him. “How do I—?”

“Drop the act, Father Castiel. I’m onto you.”

“I—”

Father Raphael pressed a finger to his neck. To Dean’s bite, which he knew was peaking just above his collar. He should have covered it up better, but he’d been in a hurry this morning. “What’s this?”

Castiel resisted the urge to shove himself away from Father Raphael. “What?”

“This—” Father Raphael stroked the bruise. “—on your neck.”

“Oh.” Castiel flailed about for a lie. “It’s . . . a bee sting.”

“You’ve got bees in the middle of January?”

“You’d be surprised,” Castiel laughed nervously.

Father Raphael removed his hand. “Ah. Well, then. Good day, Father.”

“Good day, Father Raphael,” Castiel echoed, speaking to Father Raphael’s retreating back.

Shaken by Father Raphael’s visit, he couldn’t concentrate on his work. Thoughts of Dean sprang to mind again, consuming him, comforting him.

Dean had been inside him.

He wondered . . . what if him . . . inside Dean . . .

Would it feel different? Would it be just as sweet?

He smiled to himself. He would find out, he decided.

xxxxxxxxx 

When Castiel got home, he grabbed Dean’s wrist and wrenched him off the couch. “My turn,” he declared as he pushed Dean against a wall.

“Cas,” Dean said. “What’re you—”

“Shh,” Castiel murmured as he kissed Dean lightly. “Your body is a temple, and I want to worship at it.”

Dean chuckled. “You been practicing that line all day?”

The laugh lines at the corners of his eyes . . . beautiful. Castiel’s lips touched those next to one eye then the other. The words tumbled out of his mouth before he was aware of them. “I honor this man’s eyes, o Lord, beside which emerald and jade have no shine.”

His lips proceeded farther down, his litany continuing. The smattering of freckles over Dean’s cheeks, the bridge of his nose, such a delicate feature, lovely . . . he trailed kisses over them. “I cherish the fairy dust You’ve bestowed upon him.”

He reached Dean’s lips. “I honor this man’s lips, which taste of the sun. . .” He clasped his lips around Dean’s. “. . . and apple pie.” Castiel felt Dean’s laugh against his lips and swallowed it. He whispered, “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.” This time, his lips lingered on Dean’s for much longer, his tongue slowly exploring every inch of his mouth.

His lips moved on, grazing over Dean’s chin and stopping once he reached his neck. “I savor this manna.” He sucked and both felt and heard Dean moan under him. After a few minutes, Castiel brushed wet lips downward to Dean’s clavicle and then encountered the top button of his shirt. He tackled it with careful fingers then pressed a kiss to the skin underneath. He did the same with the other buttons until there were no more. Dean’s open shirt exposed every mark John Winchester had seared onto his torso. Castiel ran gentle fingers over them all. “I honor this man’s scars, for they signify his strength and endurance, the indomitable soul underneath.”

He unbuttoned Dean’s jeans and slipped them down at a deliberate pace. He did the same with Dean’s boxers before caressing his thighs, his knees, his calves. After that, he knelt in front of Dean, his mouth moving from Dean’s ankle up to Dean’s member. Dean had . . . he hesitantly took it between his lips, experimenting with the feel of it. Dean groaned under him and bucked into his mouth, at first slowly, then more quickly until Castiel tasted liquid. He drew back and examined Dean’s instrument . . . it hadn’t been semen, but something else. He remembered what Dean had said last night, about how he wasn’t coming until Dean was inside him, and he decided that’s what he would do for Dean now.

The liquid had an intangible taste, a hint of the same quality as Dean’s lips and mouth. “I honor this man’s earthy spirit,” he muttered, concluding that those words summed matters up.

Dean smirked down at him, his cheeks flushed. “You’re kinda dirty, you know that?”

“I am?” Castiel replied. He hadn’t given much consideration to his actions. He’d let himself go, and perhaps that had been wrong, but he wasn’t sorry.

“Yeah.” Dean grasped his hand and pulled him to his feet. He smashed his lips against Castiel’s then whispered, “I like it.”

Castiel blushed and offered up a small grin. “I’m not finished.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“No.” He dragged Dean to his bedroom, where they both toppled onto the bed. Dean chucked off his boots, let his jeans and boxers drop to the floor, and threw his shirt on top of the pile. Castiel flung his shirt onto Dean’s items then recalled something Dean had rubbed onto him. He jumped to his feet. “I’m going to get that stuff you were using yesterday,” he announced.

“The lube?”

“Is that what it’s called?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Well, I’m going to get it. I’ll be right back.”

He discovered the bottle lying on the floor in Dean’s room next to the towel filled with Castiel’s semen. He reddened at the thought. After picking up the lube, he found a towel in Dean’s dresser then carried the two items back to his room. He laid the objects on the bed as he perched on its edge, ridding himself of his shoes all the while. Dean watched as he stripped himself of his pants and his boxers. Castiel’s lips formed into a sly smile. “Are you ready?” he asked.

“Let’s do this,” Dean answered.

He copied Dean’s actions from yesterday, coating his fingers and Dean’s butt with the lube. “I suppose this is to loosen you up.” He poked a finger in, not sure how far he should go. As he swirled his finger, he bent down and trapped Dean’s bottom lip between his, drinking in the taste of Dean. That deceptively simple earthiness. He pushed in another finger and moved it around with the other, but, and he didn’t know why, an intuition told him that Dean still wasn’t loose enough. He was being too cautious. He stuck a third finger in, and with all three in, he grew more daring, his fingers more forceful, going deeper . . .

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean groaned.

Castiel abruptly ceased his ministrations. “Did I hurt you?”

“Fuck. No. Keep going.”

Castiel resumed his previous motions, removing his fingers a little while later. As Dean had done yesterday with him, Castiel lathered more lube on Dean’s butt. He was attempting to figure out how to continue when Dean said, “Um, Cas, you might want to try it the other way.”

“What do you mean?” Castiel inquired.

“Um, well, y’know,” he stammered. “From . . . the back. It might be easier. Since you’re um . . . y’know.”

Castiel resented the insinuation that he couldn’t handle things this way, but then he realized Dean was correct. “Very well,” he replied. He helped Dean maneuver himself onto his stomach and discovered he’d been right—a few welts and scars were spread out over Dean’s back. He placed a hand on each of Dean’s shoulders as he straddled him, propped his chin on the left one and glanced at Dean’s eyes, which were literally inches away. “I want to see you,” Castiel murmured. But first . . . he removed his chin, braced himself, and took a few deep breaths.

“You’ll be fine,” Dean assured him.

After carefully taking aim, Castiel closed his eyes and pushed himself in. He positioned his chin back on Dean’s shoulder, and his eyes flew open. He moved slowly at first, gently, adjusting to the feel of things. He reached one hand underneath and clasped it around Dean’s penis, stroking up and down again and again. Dean muttered, “Faster,” so Castiel picked up the pace. He shoved deeper into Dean, eliciting a whimper. “More,” Dean breathed. As they continued like this, Castiel became bolder, his thrusts penetrating deeper, his motions quicker, and Dean continued to shout, “More, more, more," the words cascading out of his mouth.

Castiel murmured, “Dean, Dean, Dean,” and eventually the murmurs became yells. Their voices blended together until all Castiel heard was, “More Dean, more Dean, more Dean,” and yes, he wanted more Dean, he wanted to gorge himself on Dean.

He noticed Dean’s pupils dilating, the black overrunning a portion of that gorgeous hazel-green, and ran a hand through Dean’s hair, relishing its softness.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean roared, his eyes glazing over with ecstasy. “Cas, Cas, Cas, Castiel! Castiel, Castiel, Castiel!” His semen drenched Castiel’s hand, dripped onto the bed, and a second later Castiel felt Dean go limp beneath him.

The sight and sound of Dean gripped by pleasure, his name falling from Dean’s lips—these things sent Castiel over the edge, and he emptied himself inside Dean.

Afterward, as they lay side by side catching their breath, Castiel contemplated what he’d just done.

 _Sin_. The three letters writ themselves large in his mind.

Once could be a mistake, but twice—twice indicated intentionality.

Yes, it had been intentional. He’d been planning this— _sex_ —all day.

He reveled in it, and he wanted more of it.

But this couldn’t last. Even if it wasn’t a sin . . . and that was a big _if_ , he couldn’t maintain his occupation, not if he continued this with Dean.

But he shouldn’t worry about that now, he decided. Instead, he should appreciate the moment with Dean.

Remembering a conversation from earlier today, Castiel rolled onto his side and gazed at Dean. “May I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” Dean responded.

“Do you think I act like I’m better than everybody?”

Dean turned onto his side and faced Castiel. “Maybe I thought you did when I first met you . . . but that was more me than you. _Everyone_ acts like they’re better than me. You’re one of the only people who don’t.” Dean furrowed his brow. “Why?” His fingers idly fidgeted with the chi-rho, which had remained around his neck this whole time.

With a start, Castiel realized his collar was still on, and his hand flew there now, ripping it off as he explained, “Father Raphael said I acted like that.”

“Don’t listen to that guy. He’s a dick.”

“Okay.” Castiel smiled his thanks then bounded to his feet. After getting dressed, he informed Dean, “I’m going to prepare supper.”

When Castiel reached the doorway, Dean called, “Wash your hands!”

Castiel looked back at him and drily commented, “I don’t think I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine."--Song of Solomon 1:2, King James Version of the Bible
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	15. The Lord Is My Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.
> 
> There probably won't be anymore updates until the weekend. I've got quite a bit to do, but I wanted to get this chapter finished just in case I'm not able to update during the weekend.
> 
> It's flashback nightmare time for our heroes . . .

The Brethren owned a few businesses located on the edge of the compound beside the highway: a gas station, a diner, a general store. Building maintenance, food, electricity, phone lines, etc.—the Brethren acquired much of its money for these costs by catering to travelers who stopped by the village.

Only those at the Next Level were given the opportunity to work at these businesses, and Castiel soon learned why. Oftentimes the customers were robbed; surreptitiously, of course, so they wouldn’t discover what’d been taken from them until they were hours away. Uriel claimed God ordained these thefts so the Brethren could pay operating costs. He also received Revelation revealing which people to steal from, and merely a fraction of visitors were ever targeted.

But one day when Castiel was working at the gas station, Uriel commanded him to do more than merely rob.

A man pulled up to Castiel’s pump and exited his car. He reached for the pump, but Castiel grabbed it before he could complete his motion.

“Full-service gas station, huh? Don’t see those much anymore,” the man commented. Castiel smiled at him and examined his features. He was maybe thirty, with light brown eyes and hair of a matching color. He wore jeans and a blue-checkered button-up shirt. Everything about him seemed kind. As Castiel filled the gas tank, the two chatted. He learned the man’s name was Charley Reed, and the adorable infant in the backseat was his daughter Cheyenne. He was headed to Oregon, where his sister lived, hoping he and his daughter could have a fresh start. His wife had died a few months ago, and too many reminders back home made it impossible for him to continue living there. Castiel offered the man his condolences; then he went inside to pay his bill.

Once the man left, Uriel approached Castiel, explaining that he’d received Revelation. The daughter belonged to them, and she must be taken. They wouldn’t harm the man, just knock him out before the deed was done and drop him and his car off somewhere a few hours away.

Kidnapping, and only a few weeks after the Naarah Chad incident—Castiel couldn’t do it again. He still had nightmares about the disconsolate looks on the Chads’ faces. Plus, he liked the man, Charley Reed, and he wanted him to be happy in his new life with Cheyenne. Castiel told Uriel these things.

“It’s what the Lord wills,” Uriel replied. “The Lord has spoken. Her name is not Cheyenne. Her name is Shiphrah.”

Why would God want to break up this small family? Especially after what had happened to Mrs. Reed?

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t.

“I won’t do it,” Castiel asserted, attempting to sound firm.

“But the lord says you must,” Uriel countered. “And if you don’t, we’re to kill the man.”

How did that make sense? Why would God do that? He put this question to Uriel as delicately as he could.

Uriel shrugged. “It’s not for us to debate logic with the Lord. He has His own reasons.”

Maybe Uriel was bluffing. Maybe he really wouldn’t do anything to Charley Reed if Castiel refused. Maybe it was merely a trick to persuade Castiel to cooperate.

“No,” Castiel decided. “I won’t do it.” The man strolled out of the gas station, and Uriel called to two other members, ordering them to restrain the man.

“It’s going to be painful for him,” Uriel whispered to Castiel. Uriel commanded the man and woman to beat their prisoner until he no longer breathed. He turned back to Castiel. “This is your fault. Never forget that. There was no need for this man to die, except for your willful disobedience.”

They began hitting the man, and Castiel averted his eyes. “Uh-uh,” Uriel said as he clutched both sides of Castiel’s head and yanked his gaze toward what was unraveling, holding it in place. “Watch. Watch and remember. This is because of you.”

“No!” Castiel screamed as tears sprang to his eyes. “No, please! Stop hurting him! Kill me instead! Damn me! Damn me, kill me, damn me, kill me, please! Just stop!”

Castiel heard the crunch of bones and saw blood spilling from what appeared to be everywhere. He shrieked, repeating the same words until his throat cracked. When his throat caved in, he kept crying out, his voice scratchy and no doubt inaudible, himself struggling to breathe. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no . . . !” Over and over.

“Cas! Cas!” a familiar voice shouted over the scene. Who called him Cas?

“Cas! Cas!”

Why did he know that voice?

“Cas! Cas!”

And now his eyes focused on something other than the murdering of Charley Reed. He knew this person, but he couldn’t remember. Whoever he was, he didn’t belong here, with the Brethren.

“Cas!” the man standing above him exclaimed.

Castiel glanced at the darkened room around him. “Where am I?”

The man crawled into the bed and threw his arms around Castiel. “Shh. It’s okay. You’re home.”

Home? What was home?

The man ran a hand through Castiel’s hair. “It was just a dream. You’re not with them anymore. You’re here. You’re safe.”

He suddenly realized his whole body was shaking, and tears were dripping from his eyes. _Dean_. That was the man’s name. _Dean._

No, he wasn’t with the Brethren anymore. He was here. With Dean. Whose hand continued to soothe him, smoothing his hair as he’d sometimes imagined a mother’s would.

No mother had ever comforted him so.

“Shh, it’s all right,” Dean said gently. “I’m here.”

Castiel buried his face in Dean’s shoulder and wept as Dean’s motions brought him back to the present.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Dean had woken up to the sound of screams. It was Cas, shrieking himself hoarse, yelling words Dean couldn’t decipher until toward the end, when it was one word, “No!”, choked out and terrified.

He’d known it at once: Cas was dreaming about those Angelic Brethren bastards.

He hated that those assholes still tormented Cas.

When Cas turned into his shoulder, Dean let his hand wander from Cas’s head to his back then up to his hair again. He continued this movement, Cas’s shuddering sobs boiling beneath his hand. Eventually, Cas pulled back and wiped a hand across his eyes. His body still trembled, though not as violently as when Dean had first put his arms around him.

“They killed him because of me,” Cas breathed, his eyes widening in the dark.

“What?” Dean responded reflexively. Damn, why had he said that? Cas didn’t need to experience the incident anew by narrating it to him.

“They killed him because of me,” Cas repeated, his voice quaking. “They . . . ” He swallowed. “They wanted me to take his daughter, but I wouldn’t. Not again.” Not again? Oh, yeah, Cas had once mentioned something about kidnappings. . .“So,” Cas sobbed. “So they killed him; then they took her anyway.”

Who the fuck could be so brutal?

“No,” Dean replied. “That wasn’t you. That was them.”

“But, but—” Cas spluttered, “you don’t understand. Uriel told me they were going to. He said—he said they’d do it if I didn’t do as I was told. And I still refused.”

“Cas—”

“They beat him,” Cas whispered. “They made him suffer. They made him suffer to punish me.”

“Cas—”

“It’s—my—fault,” Cas gasped.

“ _No_. Fuck that.”

“If I’d just—”

“No. You didn’t do anything. _They_ did. _They’re_ the ones who killed him. _You did nothing_.”

“But—”

“ _No_. Whatever it is they said to you . . . it’s not true.”

“Then why do I feel like the blood is on my hands?” Cas whispered.

“Because they’re a bunch of fuckin’ douchebags who told you a bunch of damn lies to get you to play along with their twisted . . . whatever the hell it was.” He drew Cas closer to himself and murmured, “Come here.” Cas stared at him, and he stroked Cas’s hair again. “Don’t let ‘em get to ya,” he urged softly. “Okay?” After a minute, Cas nodded slowly. “Good man.”

He embraced Cas as tightly as he dared and rocked him as long as it took until steady breathing indicated Cas had drifted back to sleep. Only then did he allow the tears to fall.

Those Brethren people, they’d tortured Cas both physically and psychologically. How could they hurt Cas like that? It was like kicking a puppy. Who kicked puppies? Sadistic bastards, that’s who.

Who the hell could pull the type of shit these Brethren freaks had? Were probably still doing?

 _John Winchester_.

The thought came to him unbidden. Well, yeah, he might fit in with those sickos.

But even he wouldn’t . . . would he?

No. He was different. Life had made him that way. Those Brethren psychos, they were . . . it was like they were born with demented instincts.

But was it really so different? Perhaps they were brought up like that, conditioned that way like Cas, but unlike Cas, they hadn’t the ability to think outside what they were taught.

And even Cas, if it weren’t for that Balthazar, he might’ve, maybe—

 _No_. He knew Cas. Cas could’ve _never_ been like that. If there’d been no Balthazar, he would’ve found his way to the person he was now.

Because it’d always been in his heart.

xxxxxxxxxx 

When Dean was twelve, Dad shook him awake in the middle of the night. Told him they needed to go practice with their weapons. That part wasn’t unusual, but what had transpired shortly thereafter was.

He followed his dad outside, stumbling along with exhaustion. Dad had been forcing him to participate in midnight practice sessions for the past week. At least he wasn’t disturbing Sammy’s sleep, Dean had reflected.

But he was oh so tired, and sights periodically grew blurry in front of him. And all of this was pointless . . . he’d recently figured out that Dad believed a delusion, that there was no such thing as the demon that’d killed Mom. He’d long suspected the truth, but he didn’t want to accept Dad was that unbalanced. He continued practicing to make his dad happy, hoping that someday Dad would look down at him and warmly conclude, “Good job, son.”

But tonight, the need for sleep overrode all other concerns.

When they reached the shed behind the cabin, Dean asked, “Can we . . . can we skip practice tonight? I have a test tomorrow.” There. That should be a good enough excuse. It always worked for Sam. Dad prized the glittering report cards Sam brought home and periodically admonished Dean for not having similar grades. Dean envied the proud smile Dad would present to Sam; Dad had never once smiled at him like that. Despite his jealousy, he was happy for Sam. He really was. If Dad was going to be disappointed in one of his sons, better him than Sam.

“Don’t shit me, boy,” Dad grunted. “This is more important. Besides, we both know school isn’t for you. You’re not a brain. You’re a soldier.”

Dean yawned, but he didn’t protest anymore. There was no way he was getting out of this. He’d just go through with it and hope they finished early, that this wouldn’t be one of those nights Dad wanted to spar until dawn.

They started with the guns. As always, Dad was an expert shot, but Dean did worse than usual. “What’s the matter with you, boy?” Dad complained.

Dean yawned for the umpteenth time. “I’m so tired. Dad. Do we really have to do this now?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Dad answered. “You have to know how to fight in the dark. Ya never know when the demon will come. He’s not gonna care if it’s late, if you’re tired, if you’re hungry, . . . you’ve gotta be able to handle yourself no matter what.” He paused then spoke more gently. “This is for your own good. I don’t want the demon to get you. Okay?”

Dean nodded and smiled feebly. “Okay.” With those last few words, Dad’s tone had been kind. He cared. Dean had needed that reminder. Dad was a harsh man, and it was easy to forget, but that didn’t make it any less true: Dad did love him.

The renewed knowledge provided Dean with a burst of energy, and he did well with the next couple of weapons they practiced. Then fatigue pounded into him again. While stringing a bow with an arrow, he stupidly lost his footing and fell.

“What the hell, son!” John shouted as Dean clambered to his feet.

It was an effort to stand. “Dad,” he whispered. “Can we stop for today? Please?”

“ _No_.”

“Why does it even matter?” Dean countered before considering the wisdom of his words. “The demon isn’t real.”

Dean witnessed Dad's anger enkindle itself. “I know that didn’t just come out of your mouth,” he snapped. Dean tried his best to look defiant. “It did, didn’t it?” He grabbed Dean by the shoulders and slammed him against a nearby tree.

“Ow!” Dean exclaimed instinctively when blinding pain burst into the back of his head.

“Quit yer whinin’,” John groused. He grasped Dean again by the shoulders and dragged him to the shed, pushing him against the back shelves. “I’ll be right back. Don’t you _dare_ move,” he ordered before leaving the building. Dean didn’t think he could move even if he wanted to. His head hurt too much, and he was too sleepy. His eyes drooped closed.

“Who told you you could sleep, boy!” Dad yelled when he returned, and Dean jerked awake. He noticed the bottle in his dad’s hand and felt a sense of foreboding. Although he didn’t know what the bottle contained, he realized it couldn’t be anything good.

“You think the demon’s not real, huh?” Dad hissed as he stalked toward him. “The demon that set your mom on fire? The demon that _you_ let into the house?” Soon his dad stood merely inches away, and he twisted the cap off the bottle and tossed it away. “You know what that feels like?” He flipped the bottle upside down, and the contents spilled onto his left shoulder.

Dean screamed.

The sound pierced his ears.

John clapped a hand over Dean’s mouth. “Shut up!” he snarled. “We wouldn’t want to wake Sam now, would we?”

No, he didn’t want to wake Sam. He _definitely_ didn’t want Sam to discover what was going on right now.

So he willed himself to stay silent.

“Good boy,” Dad breathed. Dean couldn’t even begin to describe the pain he was feeling. It was like a million knives were cutting into his shoulder, yet there was much more to it than that.

Dad continued, “You think that hurts? Huh?” He narrowed his eyes. “I bet you do. That doesn’t even hold a candle to what Mary felt. It was ten times worse. A hundred times worse. A million times worse. And remember: _you’re_ the one who did it to her. _You_ allowed the demon to come inside.”

Tears bloomed in Dean’s eyes, but he held them in. It would only provoke Dad more.

“Dean?” a gravelly voice ventured. He searched for its source, but he couldn’t find it. He wondered that his dad had not heard the voice.

“Dean?” the voice repeated.

His eyes fluttered, and the next thing he knew, he was looking up at Cas, who stared down at him.

“You were having a nightmare,” Cas said. Way to state the obvious, Sherlock.

“Fuck off, Cas,” Dean muttered through tight lips before rolling onto his side.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Dean presented his back to him, but Castiel was undeterred. Dean often lashed out when he was hurting the most.

Instead of “fucking off,” Castiel slipped into the bed with Dean and turned onto his side, his eyes focused on Dean’s back. He knew he shouldn’t touch Dean at the moment, for that would only make Dean more oppositional. Rather, he would just be here for him.

A couple of minutes ago, an elemental scream had shattered Castiel’s sleep, ripping into his core. When no more shrieks followed, Castiel wondered whether he’d imagined the sound. Yet instinct told him he had not.

It was Dean. That harrowing scream had come from Dean.

He rushed to Dean’s room, determined to help him just as Dean had when he’d dreamed about the Brethren the other night.

After a little while, Dean looked back at him. “Whaddaya want, Cas?” he mumbled.

“Nothing,” Castiel replied.

Dean turned to face Castiel. “If you think I’m going to tell you what that was—”

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Castiel assured him.

“Good. Because I’m not going to.” And again he gazed at Dean’s back. “What’re you still doing here?” Dean asked a few minutes later. Castiel didn’t answer, and then Dean swiveled around to face him again. “Fine,” he grumbled. “I’ll tell you.

“He burned me.”

“Your father?”

“Who else?”

Castiel placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “This?”

“Yeah.”

So Dean had been dreaming about the acid burn. No wonder his shriek had sounded so excruciating. “Oh, Dean,” he whispered.

“I deserved it.”

“What? No. I refuse to believe that.”

“It’s what she felt.” Castiel could hear Dean restraining an urge to cry.

“Your mother?”

“Yeah.” He added, his voice barely audible, “But for her it was much worse.”

“But that doesn’t mean—” How to phrase this? “—It doesn’t mean you deserved what your father did. That was cruel.”

“I needed to know what she felt.”

“Dean—”

“I deserved to feel it. Because it was my fault.”

“It was not your fault.”

“Yes, it was. Dad said I let the demon in. The demon that killed her.” So this was how John Winchester had become obsessed with hunting demons. “Obviously, that’s not how it happened, but I must’ve . . . I did _something_.” A sob escaped him.

“No, you didn’t.”

“You don’t know that,” Dean rebuked him sharply.

No, he didn’t. But he felt confident that Dean wasn’t responsible. Even if Dean had somehow acted in a way that triggered the fire (and what could he possibly have done?), it still wasn’t his fault. How old had he been? Four?

But Castiel knew Dean wouldn’t accept that argument, so he tried a different tack. “From what you’ve told me of your mother,” Castiel began deliberately, “she was a lovely woman. A loving woman. Do you think she’d want you to beat yourself up like this?”

“No,” Dean breathed.

“She’d want the best for you. I’m sure of it.”

“Maybe.”

“Honor her,” Castiel suggested. “Honor her by treating yourself kindly.”

Dean snorted. “Right,” he scoffed. He turned away from Castiel again. “There. I’ve satisfied your damn curiosity. Now leave me alone.” Castiel didn’t move. “I said go,” Dean repeated.

Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist (something Dean had informed him was called spooning).

“What’re you doing?” Dean murmured.

Castiel pressed a kiss to the side of Dean’s neck. “Staying.”

“You don’t listen, do you?” Dean mumbled. Castiel felt Dean’s muscles relaxing under him.

Castiel’s smile brushed the back of Dean’s neck. “No.”

Castiel was falling deeper.

He would burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm also grateful for all the kudos, comments, etc.!


	16. Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.
> 
> The first part of this chapter is especially sacrilegious.
> 
> I've been looking forward to the second half of this chapter. I hope it works . . .

“Forgive me not, Father,” a familiar voice on the other side of the confessional began. “For I have sinned, and I will sin again. Blah blah blah. Amen.”

“ _Dean?_ ” Castiel exclaimed.

“Dean, who’s Dean? I’m just a not-so-humble member of your flock.”

“Dean, I recognize your voice.”

“You don’t know who I am. We’re anonymous in these things. So. Are you interested in hearing my confession or what?”

What could Dean possibly want? Castiel very much doubted he intended to initiate a serious confessional. There were actual parishioners who needed to unburden themselves. “Dean, I would appreciate it if you didn’t make a mockery of my religion.”

“How about I start by telling you what I’d like to do with a certain priest.” Castiel blushed. This was not the time or place for whatever Dean was about to detail to him. “He’s one sexy motherfucker.” A hint of mirth tinted Dean’s voice. “If I described him to you, I think you’d agree.—”

“That’s enough,” Castiel muttered, his chest growing tight with anxiety.

“But I’m not through. He’s got these electric blue eyes. Impossibly innocent, wide, breathtaking blue eyes. To tell the truth, I hated them at first. They were too powerful. They . . . um . . . they, I wasn’t lying when I said they were electric. Their shock was so intense. And I thought it was moronic for an adult to be so innocent. Until I got to know him.

“There’s his thick brown hair. So perfect for running a hand through. Soft—”

Even if he weren’t in the confessional, all this praise would make Castiel uncomfortable. “Dean, please stop,” he whispered.

“I see. A little less talk, a lot more action, huh? Why don’t I _show_ you what I’d like to do to this priest? That oughtta be fun.”

“Dean, _no_.” Castiel tried to make his voice sound firm, but instead it came out a tad uncertain. He acknowledged to himself, with a jolt, that the idea of Dean’s threatened demonstrations titillated him.

“How do I come over there?” He paused, waiting for Castiel’s answer. When none was forthcoming, he continued, “Hell. I’ll figure it out. I’m resourceful.” A flurry of movement indicated Dean was exiting the other side of the confessional; then silence descended. Castiel hoped Dean wouldn’t discover how to reach the other side of the confessional.

But he also hoped Dean _would_ find it.

Conscience fought desire.

A little while later, Castiel heard a knock at his door. He shouldn’t let Dean in. He really shouldn’t. But . . . what if Father Raphael or Father Michael were to spot Dean lurking on this side? The results would be disastrous. 

Or so he told himself.

He unlatched the door, allowed Dean inside, and bolted the door again.

“Now, where were we?” Dean asked. A roguish grin played across his lips. “Oh, yeah. I was gonna show you what I imagine doing with that priest.” Dean grasped Castiel by the shoulders and pushed him against the wall; then he leaned in and planted his lips on Castiel’s. Castiel halfheartedly attempted to pull himself away, but Dean’s earthiness was delicious. He couldn’t resist. He dug his fingers into the lapels of Dean’s leather jacket and yanked Dean closer to himself, so close that their chests pressed against each other. Such intimate proximity to Dean . . . ethereal rapture.

Their tongues battled; pleasure built.

When they needed air, their tongues retreated, leaving their lips locked in a delicate touch. “You taste so good, Cas,” Dean mumbled into Castiel’s mouth.

“You, too.” The breath of Castiel’s whisper mingled with Dean’s, passing from his lips to that of the other man. Dean swallowed, providing a wondrous illusion that he had caught Castiel’s words and digested them.

Dean’s hand flew to the waistband of Castiel’s pants, but Castiel withdrew it and admonished, “No. Not in here.” Dean quirked an eyebrow. “Too risky.”

“Risky? I like risky,” Dean replied.

“Keep your voice down. Someone might hear us,” Castiel said softly.

Dean’s hand returned to Castiel’s slacks. “We can be quiet.”

Castiel swatted his hand away; then footsteps indicated someone was entering the confessional.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” a nervous girl commenced. “It has been two days since my last confession.” Castiel sat down and prepared to listen. Dean knelt in front of him and undid his pants. This time, Castiel couldn’t tell him to stop or he’d give himself away. He concentrated on ignoring whatever Dean was doing and listening to the penitent.

But it was hard for him to understand what the teenager was narrating when Dean drew down his pants, his boxers, rubbed Castiel’s thighs with his rough hands. Then a tongue on his penis—

Castiel gasped. The girl rambled, “I know, Father. It was a horrible thing for me to do, calling Ellie a bitch. I was just jealous. She knew I liked Brad, but she still said yes when he asked her out. It’s not her fault. I mean, what girl wouldn’t like Brad? But,” she sighs. “Let’s face it. Brad’s always ignored me. Might as well let Ellie have him.”

Dean dropped Castiel’s penis and looked like he was about to start laughing, so Castiel clamped a hand over his mouth and glared at him. _No noise, Dean._

The girl detailed more things she felt guilty about doing to her friends, and afterward he bestowed absolution upon her and told her what to do for penance. Dean took Castiel’s penis back into his mouth, and Castiel bit his lip to keep himself from crying out.

“Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good,” Castiel ended the ritual with.

“For his mercy endures forever,” the girl answered. He heard her depart a moment later.

Castiel glanced down at Dean. After this, he should attend confessional himself. But he couldn’t. Father Raphael and Father Michael would both recognize his voice, and he couldn’t risk them finding out about him and Dean. It would ruin him.

As Dean continued to twist his tongue around Castiel’s penis, Castiel bit down on his lip harder and harder until it bled. Then Dean’s mouth was on his, his tongue licking the blood away. Castiel thought he could taste himself on Dean’s lips, which he found a little disconcerting.

“Relax,” Dean breathed before returning to his penis.

He needed Dean to stop.

He needed Dean to keep going.

When he came, he couldn’t prevent a cry from escaping his lips. Thankfully, no one was on the other side. Dean gulped down his semen, and Castiel gaped at him. “What?” Dean responded. “Gotta clean it up somehow.” Castiel blushed, and Dean offered him a teasing grin. “Besides. Tastes good.” Castiel knew his cheeks must be redder than a sunburn.

His watch indicated that Castiel’s shift in the confessional was over. He stood up and held a hand out to Dean, who took it as he scrambled to his feet. “We’re done here,” Castiel explained as they exited the booth. He scurried through the church, dragging Dean with him until they reached the door. It wouldn’t do for Father Raphael or Father Michael to discover him back there with Dean.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Cas,” Dean announced as Castiel’s hand slid up to Dean’s wrist. “That’s your present.”

“I don’t like it,” Castiel declared.

There was that loveable mischievous smile. “Oh, you liked it all right.”

“Yes,” Castiel conceded. “But I don’t want to do it again. Ever.”

He suddenly realized the enormity of what Dean had said. Valentine’s Day present? Were they . . . together like that? Yes, they had sex, but . . . it had never occurred to Castiel that he and Dean might actually be a couple.

So were they?

If Dean was thinking of him for Valentine’s Day, they had to be.

And he hadn’t got Dean anything.

“I’ll take you out to eat tonight,” Castiel decided. “For Valentine’s Day.”

Dean snorted. “If you do that, it’s gonna be pretty obvious it’s a date.”

Date? Oh. No one could know about him and Dean. So, no they couldn’t look like a couple in public. Well, there was one place he believed no one would go for a romantic Valentine’s Day outing. “How about I take you out for pizza?”

“Pizza?” Dean scratched his head. “Yeah. Sure. I’d like that. I haven’t had pizza in a long time.”

Castiel allowed himself a smile. “Okay. So tonight. Pizza.”

“Yeah.”

“I look forward to it. Good-bye, Dean.”

“See ya later, Cas.”

As the church door swung shut, Father Raphael’s voice boomed behind him. “You were standing awfully close to him, Father Castiel.”

Castiel flinched then spun around to face Father Raphael. “What?”

“Dean Winchester. You were standing closer to him than seems proper.”

“So?” Castiel fired back. “I stand close to people all the time.”

“Yeah. I’ve noticed. It’s kind of disturbing.” Father Raphael paused. “So. What was he doing here, anyway?”

“Visiting.”

“Oh. Well, don’t let him distract you from your duties.” Father Raphael sniffed before stalking away.

Castiel wondered if Father Raphael had overheard any of his conversation with Dean. No, he didn’t think so. Dean would’ve noticed if Father Raphael had been lurking around.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Dean and Cas had never shopped for groceries together before. As he pulled into the store’s parking lot, Dean asked himself why he was nervous. Perhaps because it was Saturday, which meant the entire town might see them together. Not that Dean was worried people would suspect he and Cas were, well, _together_ , but he did think the sight of him and Cas doing stuff with each other might get tongues wagging.

He shrugged off his anxiety. Why should he care? When had he ever given a fuck about what people thought of him?

He hoped they wouldn’t run into Bobby and his dad. Upon second thought, that seemed unlikely. Dad didn’t like shopping with the crowds. Thank God.

“You ready?” Dean put to Cas, who nodded. They bounded out of the car and entered the grocery store.

Dean pushed the cart while Cas snagged the items off the shelves. Since he made their meals, he’d compiled the grocery list, to which Dean had added some snacks.

As they ambled down the second aisle, Dean noticed Ellen and Jo at the other end. As they approached, Dean smiled at them.

“Well, if it isn’t the odd couple!” Ellen exclaimed.

“Hello, Ellen. Jo,” Castiel greeted them. They beamed in return.

“Odd couple?” Dean mused.

“Opposites who are friends. Like you two,” Ellen elaborated.

“I’m surprised you guys still hang out,” Jo commented. “After, y’know . . . ” She left the allegation unfinished, but Dean knew what she meant. His douchebaggery when he’d taken Cas to Harvelle’s. Shame rushed to his cheeks.

Ellen elbowed her daughter. “We haven’t seen you in months, Dean. You used to come in to the bar at least once a week. What happened to ya?”

“Um,” Dean began. “Um. Well.” He shrugged. “I dunno. I’m just . . . things have been different lately.”

“Better, I hope.”

Dean eyed Cas then grinned as he turned back to Ellen and Jo. “Yeah. Much better.”

Ellen patted him on the shoulder. “Keep in touch, ya hear? I worry about you sometimes.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean replied. Ellen proceeded down the aisle, but Jo lingered for a second, her eyes darting between Dean and Cas.

Finally, she inquired, her gaze fully on Cas, “How’ve you been doin’?”

Castiel flashed the biggest smile Dean had ever seen on him. By normal standards, it was still tiny, but by Cas standards, that thing was freakin’ huge. He placed a hand on Dean’s arm. “I have been doing well. Thank you. And how’ve you been?”

“Meh. So-so. But not bad.” She focused on both of them again. “Nice seeing y’all. Take care.”

“You, too,” Dean and Cas responded simultaneously. She smirked as she pushed her cart past them.

“What was that about?” Dean wondered. Castiel grabbed some objects off the shelves, and Dean explained his theory when he returned. “I think she has a crush on you.”

Cas blushed. “No. I think not.”

They passed by that girl Dean had seen flirting with Cas when he’d attended one of his services. She gave Cas the stink eye. “What’s her problem?” Dean inquired.

Cas looked down at the floor. “You were right about her. She . . . liked me, and the night we were at Harvelle’s . . . ”

“You rejected her,” Dean concluded. Cas nodded. Dean laughed. “I don’t think we can rely on your opinion about Jo.”

“She doesn’t have a crush on me,” Cas insisted. “Meg acted differently. I think she was merely concerned because of the events of that night.”

“Oh.” What had Jo said to Cas at Harvelle’s? Whatever. Dean still thought Jo had a crush. She’d called Cas “cute” when they’d been at Harvelle’s, after all.

“Ellen and Jo are nice people,” Cas observed.

“Uh-huh.” They turned into the next aisle, where Cas added a few boxes of cereal to their buggy. “You forgot the Lucky Charms,” Dean pointed out. Cas snapped up a box, and they moved on to the next aisle.

“Good afternoon, Father!” an attractive brunette greeted Cas when they were midway down the aisle. A boy who appeared to be about ten or twelve stood next to her, obviously bored by the shopping excursion.

“Good afternoon, Lisa,” Cas echoed. He gestured to Dean. “This is my friend Dean. Dean, this is Lisa and her son Ben. They attend St. Francis’s.”

Dean shook her hand. “Nice to meet you,” she said. Jesus, she was hot. If he didn’t feel as he did about Cas, he’d probably be hitting on her.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed.

“How’ve you been, Lisa?” Cas asked. There was real warmth to the question. Like, you could tell Cas genuinely cared about the woman’s well-being.

“Wonderful, Father,” she replied. “And you?”

There was that giant-miniature grin again. “I am wonderful as well.”

She smiled. “Good. Well, see you tomorrow, Father.”

“See you tomorrow, Lisa.”

A few aisles later, Dean and Cas were stopped by an Asian woman with her teenaged son. “Hello, Father Castiel,” she said.

“Hello, Mrs. Tran,” Cas replied. He indicated Dean, as he had with Lisa. “This is my friend Dean.” There was a proud set to his shoulders, which astonished Dean. Why should Cas feel proud to be seen with _him_? “Dean, this is Mrs. Tran. And Kevin.” Dean returned Kevin’s nod then shook Mrs. Tran’s hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dean,” Mrs. Tran said.

“Ditto,” Dean said.

“Have a good day, Father. Dean,” Mrs. Tran offered before sliding past them.

“You have a good day, too,” Cas called after them.

Despite how densely populated the store was, Dean found the shopping experience surprisingly pleasant. It felt peaceful, him and Cas engaged together in this domestic activity.

An unfamiliar emotion throbbed in his chest.

When they finished shopping and returned to the Impala, Dean and Cas unloaded the groceries together, squeezing them into every corner of the trunk. Cas had bought a shit ton of stuff to cook, and Dean had bought a shit ton of junk food. At least their kitchen would be well-stocked for a while.

Dean slammed the trunk closed; then the words flew out of his mouth before he could register them.

“I love you, Cas.”

Oh, God. That was news to him, but once he’d uttered it, he knew it was true.

The words had come from somewhere deep within himself, and now he felt terribly exposed. Stripped. He quivered, afraid of what Cas would do. Because even if he felt the same . . . it had been a loaded thing to say.

But Cas merely stared at him a minute before putting the cart away.  

Dean would’ve preferred anger.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Castiel’s panic grew as Dean drove them home.

He liked Dean. A lot. But love?

Loving Dean like that would be _wrong_.

Being _in love_. For that’d been what Dean meant, hadn’t it.

Yes. Being in love. With another man. It wasn’t right. It went against what he believed.

But was it really so different than what they’d done already? Sex? The intimate way they behaved around each other?

It was just one small step down.

But even if he could take that step . . . Dean shouldn’t value him so much. Castiel didn’t deserve it.

But he’d encouraged it, hadn’t he? By consenting to sex with Dean? By seeking it out himself?

He shouldn’t have transgressed so. Not only had he led himself down the wrong path, but he’d also brought Dean along with him.

Yes. He should stop whatever was going on between them. Right now. Better that than later, when it might hurt more. Not just for his sake, but for Dean’s as well.

He stayed silent as they stowed away the groceries. Dean helped, his shoulders sagging with the weight of the words he’d spoken earlier. Or so it seemed to Castiel.

Castiel tried to gather his thoughts while placing the items where they belonged, but he couldn’t gain a firm grasp on them. But he had to say _something_. This had to be addressed now. Before he knew it, there were no more groceries left to store. He turned to face Dean.

“Dean,” he began hoarsely. He cleared his throat and continued with more conviction than he felt. “This . . . you and me. We can’t go on with it. It’s a sin. Everything we’ve been doing is a sin. We shouldn’t have started . . . I know I’m very much to blame for it. I led you on, and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.—”

“Cas—” Dean interrupted, but Castiel held up a hand, and Dean remained quiet

“As I was saying,” Castiel resumed. “I’m sorry for my part in this.” He concentrated on the floor. “But it has to end. I will repent of my wrongdoing. I suggest you do the same.” He raised his eyes to Dean, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at his face, so they focused somewhere to the left of him.

The silence was agonizing. Castiel felt his knees buckling, but he needed to stand his ground.

At last, Dean spoke, his voice firm. “Cas. I don’t think that’s what you want.”

 _That_ was Dean’s response? “Of course it’s what I want.” Why did his voice sound so small?

Dean took a step forward, and Castiel directed a warning look at him. “Everything but your words says otherwise,” he pointed out.

He closed his eyes, clearing the tears before Dean could notice them. “You’re wrong,” Castiel maintained. “And even if you weren’t . . . it wouldn’t matter. We’ve been sinning, and it would be . . . immoral . . . not to stop.”

Dean took another step. “Why? Because your religion says so?”

“Because God says so.”

Another step. “Weren’t you the one who said God is love?”

Castiel didn’t know how to answer that. “But not this kind of love . . . ” he ventured uncertainly.

“Tell you what,” Dean posited. “How about this? If you can look me in the eye and tell me you don’t love me . . . we’ll stop everything. Forever.”

“All right.” That should be easy enough. Castiel took a deep breath and met Dean’s eyes. “I don’t—” Those eyes pierced him, cut him to the bone. “I don’t—I love you.”

The admission slipped out of his mouth against his will. His subconscious had hidden this truth from him, and now he was aware of it, the strength of the emotion flooded him.

Dean grinned. “I knew it,” he whispered as he closed the distance between them. He cupped Castiel’s cheek and chin with one hand as he pressed a gentle kiss to his lips.

xxxxxxxxxx 

That night, Dean and Castiel began sharing a bed on a regular basis. They alternated rooms—and who took the lead when they made love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope the admissions were believable. 
> 
> I think there are about four to seven chapters left, depending on how things shake out.
> 
> As ever, thanks for reading!


	17. Free Will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.
> 
> As with last week, there probably won't be another update until this weekend.
> 
> There's about a month between the events of the last chapter and this one. I hope the time jump isn't too awkward.

After he finished changing the oil of a Volvo, Dean slipped inside for a minute and headed toward the back of the garage. There, he grabbed a small towel and wiped the sweat off his brow. He retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge, gulped down its contents, and savored the minute alone.

“Hey, Dean—” Bobby called from behind him. Dean jumped then swiveled around to face Bobby. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle ya.”

“’S all right,” Dean muttered. Bobby looked like he wanted to say something, so Dean prompted him. “What’s up?”

“Your dad’s plannin’ on meetin’ me here around noon. For a quick bite, then I’m gonna help him get a few groceries. If you . . . y’know, you might want to make yourself scarce.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Right. Thanks, Bobby.”

Bobby narrowed his eyes at him. “I still wish you’d let me talk to him about—”

“ _No_.”

“But it ain’t right—”

“I said _no_.” His tone came out sounding more aggressive than he intended.

“Okay. But you know how I feel about it.”

“Yeah.” As Bobby turned to go, Dean reminded him, “Don’t forget. I’m takin’ a personal day tomorrow.”

“Uh-huh. What’re you gonna be doin’ tomorrow, anyway?” Bobby asked.

Dean smiled coyly. “It’s _personal_.”

Bobby rolled his eyes as he left the room.

With Bobby gone, Dean allowed himself a little excitement. He didn’t plan on getting any sleep tonight, and neither did Cas, who’d somehow wrangled himself a personal day as well. Today was their two-month anniversary.

They’d had a difficult time deciding which day exactly _was_ their anniversary. Should it be the day they’d confessed their love for each other? The day they’d become a couple? When _had_ they become a couple, anyway?

They’d settled on the day they first had sex. Being Dean’s birthday, it was easy enough to remember. Plus, it was the day that marked when they’d moved into more-than-friends territory, and the day each had learned that his feelings for the other were requited.

Not that he was banking on a wild night with Cas or anything. Well, he did hope they would have some wild sex . . . Cas and he had been experimenting, some of it successful, a bit of it not, but he wanted to try out everything he could possibly think of, and Cas seemed to be game for it. Hell, Cas had come up with some surprisingly delectable ideas of his own . . .

But just being with Cas would be enough. Cas, with nothing else. His presence, his scent, his warmth.

xxxxxxxxxx 

“Okay,” Dean said. “Let’s see. Flashlights. Music. Beer. Snacks.” He grinned at Castiel and whispered, “You.” His voice resumed its normal volume. “Yep. That’s everything.” He backed out of the driveway.

“I still don’t know why,” Castiel complained once they were on the road, “you won’t let me bring some of my music.”

“What? Monastic chants? No, thanks.”

“I do _not_ listen to monastic chants.”

“Oh?” Dean sounded surprised. “What do you listen to, then?”

“Country music.”

“What? Like Taylor Swift,” Dean scoffed. “I don’t wanna hear that, either.”

“No. Like . . . Hank Williams. Johnny Cash.”

Dean seemed intrigued. “Really? That’s pretty badass.”

“Father Simon used to listen to it all the time,” Castiel explained.

“Who knew priests could have such good taste?” Dean paused. “Well, tonight I’m gonna introduce you to some more badass music.”

“What?”

Dean winked. “You’ll see.” He changed the subject. “Listen. I don’t want you to expect where I’m taking you to be exciting or anything. It’s special to me, but . . . um, it doesn’t really seem like much.”

“If it’s special to you, that’s good enough for me,” Castiel decided.

Dean glanced at him. “You’re sweet.”

Eventually, they reached the forest, where Dean turned down a dirt road. He drove slowly, cursing each time something brushed against the undercarriage of his Impala. Finally, they reached a clearing in the woods, where Dean parked his car.

Castiel surveyed the area. To the right of Dean’s vehicle was a dilapidated shack with its back to the trees, and a well stood a few feet from the dwelling. Leaves, twigs, and branches littered the dense grass surrounding the circular clearing.

“I told you it wasn’t much,” Dean said as they stepped out of the car, each grabbing a flashlight since daylight was waning. “But it’s a place I liked—like—to come to occasionally. To get away. I discovered it not long after I got my license. I never even told Sam about it.” Dean added that last sentence in a low voice.

Castiel smiled. “Then I’m honored you’d show it to me.” More honored than he could say. It was a symbol—Dean had put so much trust in him. He wasn’t worthy of it, not even remotely, but there it was.

Dean pointed at the cabin. “You wanna check out the inside before it gets too dark?”

“Sure,” Castiel replied as he walked toward the building, Dean following a second later.

“It’s not very exciting, either,” Dean explicated. “But—” They entered the shack. “—I like abandoned buildings.” He looked a little embarrassed.

“That’s—fascinating,” Castiel said. He examined the interior. Though it was falling apart, it was still fully furnished. A kitchen table, a coffee table, a couch, lamps. All rotting and piled with dirt and cobwebs, but it was curious. Who would leave all this stuff here?

Dean picked up a coffee cup from the kitchen table and blew off the dust. You could tell it had once been white, but now it was a pale yellow. “There’s history to them. Like, you could imagine what the place had been like before whoever was here left. Pretend like you’re living when they were. Think of what they were like, their stories.” He returned the cup back to the table and blushed. “Kind of dorky, huh?”

“No—it’s interesting,” Castiel protested.

“Oh, I forgot. I’m talking to the king of the dorks,” Dean smirked as he tossed a cloth napkin at him.

When he caught it, Castiel felt how grimy the napkin was. He dropped it as quickly as he could and wiped his hands on his jeans. Dean chuckled.

To his left, Castiel spotted a rickety set of stairs. He began ascending them, and Dean warned, “Careful! Those stairs aren’t very stable!” Just as he finished speaking, Castiel’s foot plunged through one of the steps, and he landed on his knees, his nose hitting the step above the hollowed-out one. “Cas, are you all right?!” Dean called as he rushed over. Castiel grasped the bannister, pulled himself up, and nodded. Castiel felt something trickling out of his nose, and swiping at it stained his fingertips red. “Shit, Cas!” Dean exclaimed as he retreated. “I told you to be careful!” He returned with the cloth napkin, which he pressed to Castiel’s nose.

Castiel swatted the napkin away. “Gross! Get that thing away from me!” he blurted out. It felt almost as if he’d inhaled something noxious when that napkin had been under his nose.

Dean threw the napkin to the floor and laughed. “Such a dainty female, padre.”

“Hmph. We don’t know where it’s been.” He resumed his progress up the stairs.

“You sure you still wanna go up there?” Dean inquired.

“Yes. I’ll be, as you say, careful.”

“I’m comin’ up there, too,” Dean announced. “After you. I’m not sure if two people should be on those stairs at the same time.”

When Castiel reached the second floor, he heard Dean begin ambling up the stairs. He toured the area upstairs while he waited. There was a bathroom with a dirty bathtub and a broken toilet. There were two bedrooms, one with a full bed and one with two twin beds, all three bedframes rusted. The one with the twin beds had a tiny basin, two short sets of drawers, and two small closets. The one with the full bed had a tall chest of drawers and one large closet. Atop the chest of drawers stood a wooden photo frame with an old black-and-white photograph of a pretty brunette and a young man in uniform.

“I think this is the master bedroom,” Dean theorized from the doorway.

“Undoubtedly,” Castiel agreed.

Dean hopped onto the bed and lay on his back atop the stained quilt, closing his eyes for a moment. He asserted, “This is surprisingly comfortable.” He patted the bed next to him. “C’mon.”

“Dean, we are _not_ having sex on that bed,” he objected.

Dean opened one eye and gazed at him. “Who said anything about sex? Perv,” he teased before closing the eye again. “You comin’ or what?”

“All right,” Castiel sighed as he climbed onto the bed and lay on his back next to Dean, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Even I wouldn’t want to have sex on top of this mess,” Dean mumbled.

“Then why are we on this filthy bed?” Castiel asked.

“Why not try it out?” After a little while, Dean bounded off the bed, and Castiel followed suit. They descended the stairs one man at a time. There was still enough light to see by, but soon they’d need to use their flashlights.

Once outside, Dean raced to the stone well. When Castiel caught up with him, they stared down at the bottom, and Dean smiled mischievously. “Wanna go down there?”

“No,” Castiel answered.

“I’ll go.” He hoisted himself onto the rim. “Dare me?” He extended one foot.

“Dean, be careful!” Castiel gasped. “You might break an ankle.” _Or kill yourself_ , he didn’t add, trembling at the thought.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” Dean assured him before he leapt.

“Dean! Are you all right?” Castiel shouted.

“I’m fine,” Dean called back. Then he shrieked in a falsetto voice, “Help! Little Timmy’s trapped in a well!”

“What?” Castiel asked blankly. “Who’s Timmy?”

Dean’s voice returned to its normal timbre. “C’mon, you’ve never watched _Lassie_?”

“The show about the dog?”

“Yeah.”

“I have seen many episodes of _Lassie_ ,” Castiel replied. “Timmy never falls into a well.”

“Smartass.” Dean paused. “Are you gonna rescue Little Timmy or what?”

Castiel supposed Dean was pretending to be “Little Timmy,” so he played along. “I can reel down this bucket, but you wouldn’t fit inside.”

“It’ll do.”

Castiel sighed. “If you say so.” He heard when the bucket hit the bottom.

“I’m gonna grab onto the bucket, and you’re gonna bring me up,” Dean declared.

“I’m not sure if I’m strong enough,” Castiel fretted.

“’Course you are.”

Castiel pulled the rope with all his strength, and after what felt like hours, the bucket finally reached the top. Castiel’s arms were sore.

Dean let go of the bucket, his feet landing on the grass. “My hero!” he exclaimed in that falsetto voice. He clutched Castiel’s shoulders and pecked him on the lips. His voice became normal again, albeit breathy. “Time for your reward.” He clasped Castiel’s hand and dragged him to the Impala, where they scrambled into the backseat. Dean crawled into the front and rummaged around in one of the plastic bags.

“What are you doing?” Castiel asked.

Dean turned to face him, held up a can of whipped cream, and grinned. “Getting this.” He shook the bottle, rolled up Castiel’s shirt, and sprayed the whipped cream on and around Castiel’s belly button.

“Dean, what are you—”

“I can’t believe we haven’t done this yet,” Dean said before placing moist lips on Castiel’s belly button and sucking the whipped cream. Castiel’s breath hitched . . . he felt heat rush to his groin. Then when Dean’s tongue licked around his belly button . . .

When Dean had devoured all of the whipped cream, he pulled back, licked his lips, and passed the can to Castiel. “Your turn.” He joined Castiel in the backseat.

Castiel wasn’t sure what he should do, exactly, so he just copied Dean. Well, he began to, but then he did things a little differently, first filling Dean’s belly button before etching a line from just above the waistband of Dean’s jeans up to Dean’s chest, removing Dean’s shirt to make things easier. He drank from Dean’s belly button then licked Dean’s torso until it was clean. Dean moaned.

“Fuck, Cas,” he breathed before snatching the can from Castiel. He contemplated Castiel for a moment before drawing his shirt off. He eyed the “X” on Castiel’s chest and traced it with the whipped cream. “X marks the spot,” he whispered before lapping up the cream. Castiel gasped. A moment later, Dean gave the can back to Castiel.

Castiel went for the hollow of Dean’s throat, taking as long as he possibly could to suck up the cream. Dean groaned, his eyes widening. “Feels so good,” he murmured.

When Dean got the can again, he sprayed Castiel’s clavicle and bit and sucked at the sensitive spot. “Love you so much, Cas,” he whispered against Castiel’s skin. “So, so much.”

Castiel found he couldn’t look at Dean. He averted his eyes as tears sprang to them.

Dean noticed. “Cas, what’s wrong?” he asked as he sat up.

“It’s just—” Castiel stifled a sob, “—just—I don’t know. No one’s ever . . . _loved_ me before.” It was something that periodically crossed his mind. Maybe Dean didn’t love him, not really. Oh, he thought he did, and it wasn’t his fault, but . . . Castiel had always known that no one could ever love him. Even when he was a child. None of the other Brethren kids were raised by their parents, but there had always seemed to be someone, an adult, another kid, or both, who loved each one of the others. No one had ever loved him, though he’d wanted them to. None of the other children had even liked him. For a year or so, there’d been Balthazar, who’d liked him but not loved him. When he was ten, he’d expressed his concern about his peers not liking him, but the teacher, Naomi, had claimed it was a good thing. It meant he’d never be distracted from the mission, she’d said. Made him one of the most promising students. That had reassured him for a while, but eventually he again felt the emptiness of being alone.

“I don’t know why,” Dean said softly. “You’re the most loveable guy I know.”

“You’re too kind.”

Dean gazed at him with thoughtful eyes, the moonlight casting a silvery tint onto the green. “No, I’m not. I’m a dick.”

“What?!”

“You heard me. I’m a dick.”

“No. You’re—you’re everything wonderful. I love you.”

“Yeah. And if you can love a dick like me . . . you definitely deserve to be loved.”

Tears streamed down Castiel’s cheeks. “It’s just . . . so strange,” he whispered. “Sometimes I think that I must be dreaming, that all of this, us . . . it’s too good to be true.”

“I know the feeling,” Dean choked out. Castiel observed tears cascading down Dean’s cheeks. They reached out for each other, cradling their lover’s face, kissing deeply, their tears mingling. 

They made love, all barriers down between them.

“My two favorite things,” Dean sighed as they contentedly lay together afterward. “Baby.” He turned to smile at Castiel. “And you. I could stay here forever. Like this.”

Castiel grinned. “Me, too.” If only life could be that simple.

xxxxxxxxxx 

After they’d lain in the Impala for a while, Dean told Cas to get dressed. He wanted to go outside and study the stars with him. Maybe that was sappy, but why the fuck should he care? Besides, Cas would probably like it.

It was also time to show Cas some good music. Though he was loath to move, he would have to if he wished to turn on some tunes. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to find his tape of _Led Zeppelin II_ , which contained one of his favorite Led Zeppelin songs, “Ramble On.” So he chose to start with _Led Zeppelin IV_ , thinking Cas would enjoy “Stairway to Heaven” when it came up.

“You still listen to cassettes?” Cas commented as he inserted the tape. “Even I don’t listen to cassettes.”

“Shut up,” Dean muttered. He beamed as the music began to play.

“What is this we’re listening to, then?”

“Led Zeppelin. The most awesome band of all time.”

Dean left all four doors open so the music would flow outside, and then he lay down in the grass. “C’mon, Cas,” he urged.

“Do you have a blanket we can spread out?” Cas asked.

“No. Whaddawe need that for? It’s just grass.”

Cas lay down next to him, and Dean threw an arm around him, Cas nestling into it.

“There aren’t any wild animals out here, are there?” Cas inquired.

“Nah.” Dean hoped not. He’d never seen one here before, anyway. He figured maybe the animals liked to stay in the trees.

Nothing but them and the music. The full moon and the stars. Dean had forgotten how beautiful the sky could be on a clear night, with no interference by extraneous lights. He gazed up at the sky. “They’re somethin’, aren’t they?” Dean mumbled.

Cas turned his eyes to the sky, too. “Yes.” Dean marveled at how well Cas knew him, how he hadn’t even needed to ask what Dean was referring to.

“I bet you know the names of every damn constellation, don’t you?”

“I know a lot of them,” Cas confirmed.

“I know jackshit about the stars,” Dean informed him.

“I’m sure you know a couple of the constellations. Like the Big Dipper. Do you know where that one is?”

Dean searched the sky until he thought he spotted it. “There.”

“That’s right. And the Little Dipper?”

“That one. I think.”

“Right. They’re also called Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, respectively.”

“Huh.”

“Can you find Orion’s belt?”

“It’s those three stars really close together, isn’t it?”

“Indeed. If you go this way. Like so.” He clasped Dean’s hand and extended his index finger, overlaying it with his own, so that they were tracing the figure together. “You’ll start to find the rest of Orion. That’s the tip of his sword. There’s his head. These are his shoulders. That’s one knee, and that’s the other.” He paused. “Do you want me to show you another?”

“Sure.” Cas pointed out several other constellations: Sagittarius, Taurus, Cassiopeia . . . he couldn’t remember all that shit, but Cas’s hand felt so perfect on top of his that he extended the contact for as long as he could. However, a yawn eventually escaped him.

Cas let go of his hand. “I think I’m boring you now.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Of course I am.” He sprang to his feet. “I’m going to get us some drinks. I’ll be right back.” Damn, Dean had forgotten about the beer. But Cas hadn’t. The normal order of things had been reversed. That was freakin’ _weird_.

When Cas returned with the beers, Dean sat up. It would be hard to drink while flat on his back. As Cas handed a bottle to Dean, he asked, “What’s the song playing now called?” He flicked on a flashlight so they could see better, though it seemed unnecessary—the moon was bright tonight.

He smiled as Cas snuggled back into his free arm. “That’s ‘Stairway to Heaven.’”

“All of the songs have been interesting so far . . . but I like this one. A lot.”

“I knew you would.” He clinked his bottle against Cas’s. “Cheers to us.”

“Cheers to us,” Cas repeated before taking a swig. They drank in silence for a few minutes until Cas suddenly inquired, “May I ask you about something?”

“Of course,” Dean responded.

“You promise you won’t be mad?”

Dean scratched his temple. “Why would I be mad?”

Cas took a deep breath and stammered out, “It’s about us. Us and . . . what I do. I . . . ” The longer he spoke, the more distressed his voice became. “I—I don’t know what to do.” His voice cracked. “I want to continue to serve God, but I can’t . . . not with this.” He gestured at himself and Dean. “I love you. But I love God. But I love you. And on and on it goes.”

“Why can’t you do both?” Dean asked.

“They just . . . they don’t go together. It’s impossible.”

“It’s not impossible if no one knows about it.”

“But we can’t hide it forever . . . it’ll come out at some point. I don’t know how or when or why, but everything always comes out in the end. Plus, if I put God second . . . if I choose us over God . . . it’s blasphemy.”

Dean contemplated matters for a minute. “You know what? Maybe it’s what God wants. Us. He put us together—”

Cas jerked out of his arm and scooted away. “Don’t make light of this, Dean,” he warned in that scarily intense tone he occasionally took.

“I’m not. I’m serious.—”

“Don’t you dare. You don’t even believe in God,” Cas chastised through clenched teeth.

“I would _never_ make light of this,” Dean countered. “Not with you. It’s true. All my life, I’ve never believed in God. If there was a God, why would he let Mom die the awful way she did? Hell, why would he let _you_ go through so much shit?” Cas narrowed his eyes, and Dean held up a hand to indicate he wasn’t finished. “But lately, I’ve been thinkin’ about it. How do I explain meeting you? Not just once, but several times? Was it coincidence? Because one thing I don’t believe in, besides God, is coincidence.

“God or coincidence? My fuckin’ choices here. Hell, maybe God saved me through you.” Dean realized his voice was getting louder with each word. “You know what I was gonna do that night we met in the alley?” Cas shook his head. “Kill myself.” Cas gaped at him. “That’s right. I was gonna do it any damn way I could. Just so long as I didn’t have to fuckin’ live anymore.

“But you know what? You came along, and I couldn’t do it. That little moment saved my life. And now, now I want to live, because there’s you, and I love you so damn much.” Fuck, why did he have to start crying?

Tears filled Cas’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t know—”

“I—don’t—want—your—fucking—pity,” Dean gasped out. “I just . . . thought you should know. Things aren’t as damn simple as you think they are.”

Cas laughed mirthlessly. “They already weren’t simple,” he muttered.

Dean wiped his eyes and cheeks. _Way to get chick-flicky, Winchester._

Cas crawled back, again settling his head in the crook of Dean’s arm. “Everything is as may be,” he said. Underneath his arm, Dean could feel Cas’s throat rumble as he spoke. “But I still can’t have both. This and the Church.”

“Maybe not,” Dean acknowledged. “But you don’t have to make that choice until the time comes. Don’t worry about it until then. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Like Cas, Dean was certain he’d have to eventually choose between Dean and the priesthood. But as he’d told Cas, no need to worry about it now. He’d enjoy every second with Cas while he could.

For he knew, when Cas had to make his choice, he’d opt for the Church.

Because no one ever chose him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's true: in _Lassie_ , Timmy never fell down a well. I discovered that while checking out whether my reference was correct or not. Apparently Timmy fell into a lake twice, but no well. I figured Cas would be the type of person to watch _Lassie_ and know that piece of information.
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter! Thanks for reading!


	18. Suffer the Children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.

Castiel’s day had been wearisome. He’d had to work almost all day on a project with Father Raphael, and each minute had felt like an hour. So when Castiel returned home in the evening, he traipsed into the kitchen, where he found Dean rummaging in the pantry. From behind, his hands enclosed Dean’s waist, and he swept his lips over the nape of Dean’s neck. He nipped at Dean’s ear with lips, with teeth, murmuring into it, “Hello, Dean.”

Dean whirled around to face him and smiled. “Hey, Cas.”

Castiel swung them both around, shoving Dean onto the kitchen table. He inserted a knee between Dean’s legs, planting his lips against Dean’s, assaulting his mouth. Finally, Castiel pulled back.

“You gonna fuck me on the table?” Dean said in a low voice, puffs of breath hitting Castiel’s lips.

After placing a gentle kiss on Dean’s lips, Castiel affirmed, “I might.” His lips spread into a grin.

“Y’know,” Dean pointed out, “for a priest, you’re awfully horny. It’s hot.” He added the last remark in a whisper.

Castiel smiled then leaned down again, invading Dean’s mouth with his tongue, allowing Dean’s tongue to penetrate his own mouth. He pressed Dean’s shoulders into the table, and Dean’s hands massaged his scalp, explored every inch of his hair.

They were interrupted by the doorbell.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered as they wrenched themselves from each other. He glanced at Castiel’s hair and chuckled. “I’ll get it.” Dean waited for Castiel to disappear into the bathroom before opening the door. There, Castiel ran his fingers through his hair, but strands still stuck out every which way. He tackled the mess with a brush, sweeping as quickly as he could.

When he returned to the kitchen, he found Dean, arms crossed, facing a woman standing a few feet away.

He’d prayed to God he’d never see that woman again.

“Hester?” he ventured, hoping he was successfully concealing the tremor threatening to bubble up from his throat.

“Hello, Castiel,” she replied.

“Hester,” he repeated. “Hello. Um, this is my friend Dean.”

“Hi,” Dean said, his tone clipped.

Hester forced a grin. “Hello, Dean.”

“Um, why don’t we go into the living room?” Castiel suggested as he directed his footsteps toward it, Dean and Hester not far behind. He gestured toward the couch and told Hester, “Have a seat.” Castiel settled into the recliner and a second later sensed Dean standing behind him.

Hester sank into the couch and queried, “Might we speak alone, Castiel?”

Dean placed a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Whatever you’ve got to say to Cas, you can say in front of me,” he argued. The protectiveness in Dean’s tone warmed his heart.

Castiel reached a hand up to Dean’s and squeezed it. “It’s all right, Dean,” he assured him. “Leave us.”

Dean removed his hand and shuffled into his bedroom. After the door closed, Hester raised her eyebrows. “Cas?”

“It’s a nickname. Surely you’ve heard of nicknames?” Castiel retorted.

“A bastardization, if you ask me.” _No one asked you_ , he wanted to hiss. _Cas_. He treasured the sound of it, for it was the christening of a beloved. She desecrated the syllable when it passed through her lips.

Castiel crossed his arms. “What do you want, Hester?” he asked, attempting to school his voice into neutrality.

“My, my, aren’t we rude?” she chided. Castiel didn’t deign to respond, and she sighed. “We’re looking for a runaway,” she explained. “Anna Milton.”

“Anna?” He remembered Anna; she’d been about seven or eight when he’d escaped the Brethren.

“Yes.” She pulled a photograph out of her tote bag and passed it to Castiel. In it, Anna was grown up, thick red hair tumbling past her shoulders, doe’s eyes gazing back at him. “That’s what she looks like now. Have you seen her?”

Castiel glanced up and shook his head. “No. Why would I have seen her?”

“You’re one of the few people from the Brethren who lives outside the compound. She wouldn’t know anyone else to run to.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “How did you find me, anyway?”

“Castiel Novak is a rather unusual name, comparatively speaking.” Castiel didn’t know whether he was imagining it or if Hester’s voice had really grown menacing. “You’ve very easy to track down.”

If he was so easy to find, why hadn’t the Brethren come looking for him until now? The fear had faded in the last few years, but for a long time, he’d believed the Brethren would damn him if they ever discovered his whereabouts.

“You should be damned,” Hester continued. “You know that. We Elders, we had a dispute about it, but Uriel received Revelation, and that ended matters.” Castiel stared at her in confusion. “According to Uriel, God says damning you is too much trouble. We’ve got more important things to do.”

Why would Uriel spare him? For it was Uriel, not God, who had made the decision. Castiel was certain. Perhaps he really had thought that rooting out Castiel and dragging him back to the compound took too much effort.

“As for Anna,” Hester stated. “I don’t understand what’s gotten into her. She’s always been such a good girl.” She paused and added, “Like you. You were such a good boy, one of the most promising pupils we’d ever had. Until Balthazar led you astray.” She sighed. “But there’s been no one like Balthazar dogging Anna.” She sighed again and shook her head in a way Castiel gathered was meant to indicate sadness. “It’s the oddest thing.”

“What are you going to do with her?” Castiel inquired.

“Do with her?” She barked a short laugh and offered up a mockery of a smile. “Why, nothing. We just want to welcome her back to the fold. The poor little lamb is lost.” Castiel didn’t know how he restrained his urge to shiver. “You’ll let us know if you find her?”

“Why should I do that?” Castiel replied as he held out the picture to her.

“No. You keep it. I’ve got plenty of those,” Hester responded before snatching the paper out of his hand. “Wait. I’ll give you our phone number.” She scribbled on the back of the photograph then handed it back to Castiel. “Call us if you see her.”

“And why should I do that?” Castiel asked again.

“To help her.” Castiel glared at her. “I’m serious. We won’t hurt her, Castiel. It’s for her own good. She probably wouldn’t know how to get along out here.” When Castiel didn’t respond, she beseeched him, “Just consider it, okay?”

“Okay.” There. Castiel had considered it for half a second. If Anna showed up on his doorstep, there was no way he was handing her back to that pack of monsters.

Hester rose from the couch, and Castiel escorted her to the front door. She threw open the door then turned back to Castiel. “Oh, and Father,” she sneered. “As I recall it, homosexuality is a sin in your religion as well.” She stepped outside, and he exhaled a rattling breath.

That was just a guess, right? A taunt? Surely Hester didn’t truly suspect anything . . .

When he returned to the living room, Dean lay sprawled out on the couch. “She was one of those Brethren bastards, wasn’t she?” Dean questioned.

“Yes.”

Dean maneuvered himself into a sitting position. “Well? What did the bitch want?”

“She . . . ” Castiel’s mouth was dry. “She was looking for someone. Anna Milton.”

“This Anna Milton . . . she escaped from those freaks? Like you?”

“So it would seem.” Castiel realized his hands were trembling; then he observed, with a start, that his whole body was trembling, too.

“Cas? You all right, man?”

Castiel sat down next to Dean and nodded. “I’m fine. I’m just a little . . . shaken up.”

“C’mere.” Dean threw an arm around Castiel’s shoulders and pulled him close until Castiel's head rested on his chest. He ran a rhythmic hand through Castiel’s hair.

“She said homosexuality was a sin,” Castiel informed him.

Dean’s hand froze. “What?”

Castiel gazed up at Dean through his lashes. “You don’t think she knows . . . about us?”

“Nah. She couldn’t. She saw us together for, what, like ten seconds?” His hand resumed its motion through his hair. “It’s just one of their damn mind games.”

xxxxxxxxxx 

They were in the middle of eating dinner—a delicious chicken stir fry—when the doorbell rang. Dean cursed the interruption, and Cas rushed to the door, which he unlocked then opened. “Anna,” Cas breathed.

Anna? It must be the girl that Brethren bitch was after. He turned to face her as she stepped inside. “Hi, Anna,” he said. “I’m Dean.”

“Hello, Dean,” she replied.

Cas indicated the two unoccupied chairs. “Why don’t you sit down?” He snatched a plate and fork and scooped some stir fry onto the plate. “You should have something to eat.”

Anna took a seat then said, “Oh, you don’t have to get me anything.”

“I insist,” Cas said gently as he set the plate in front of her. A moment later, he brought her a glass of water.

There were dark circles under her eyes, and clumps of her hair hung in strings. She looked like she could use a hot meal, a bath, and some sleep.

“This is really good,” Anna complimented through a mouthful of food. She devoured a few more bites before clearing her throat. “How did you recognize me, Castiel?”

“What?” Cas responded.

“I haven’t seen you since I was seven. I thought I would have to explain who I was.”

“Oh.” Cas blushed. “Hester was here a few days ago . . . Looking for you.”

“Oh.” Dean hadn’t thought her face could grow any paler, but now she disproved him. “Is she still here?” she inquired, her tone tremulous.

“I don’t think she’s still in town. Though I’m not sure,” Cas answered.

“We won’t let her take you,” Dean interjected.

She glanced at Cas with frightened eyes. “He knows?” she squeaked.

“Yes.” He patted Dean on the shoulder. “Dean is my—best friend. And roommate.”

“Oh.” She shoveled forkfuls of stir fry into her mouth before continuing. “You don’t mind if I stay here for a little bit, do you? Just until I find a place of my own?”

“Of course not.”

She yawned, raised a hand to the top of her head, and made a face. “May I take a shower?”

“Of course. There are fresh towels in the bathroom.”

She flashed a grateful smile. “Thanks.”

After she left the room, Cas and he quickly finished their meal, washed the dishes, and put the leftovers away before retiring to the living room. They turned on the TV, and Dean prepared to snuggle with Cas until he remembered they had company.

When Anna returned from the shower wearing a new set of clothes, she joined them on the couch, sandwiching Cas between herself and Dean. “What are you watching?” she inquired.

“It’s called _Dr. Sexy, M.D._ It’s Dean’s favorite show,” Cas replied, his eyes dancing as he directed a teasing grin at Dean.

Dean felt his cheeks reddening. “Is not,” he mumbled.

“Do doctors often wear cowboy boots?” Anna asked, frowning. “That doesn’t seem normal.”

“No,” Dean asserted. “That’s what makes Dr. Sexy such a badass.”

“Is his name really Dr. Sexy?” Anna sounded skeptical.

“Damn right it is!”

Cas smiled at Anna. “See? I told you it was his favorite show.” They had the nerve to begin freakin’ _giggling_.

“Shut up,” Dean inserted. “I can’t hear the damn TV.” They just laughed more loudly.

Dr. Sexy and Dr. Piccolo were conversing in intense whispers, and he couldn’t figure out a fuckin’ word they were saying. Then Dr. Sexy pushed Dr. Piccolo against the wall, and an intense make-out session followed.

“Oh, my,” Anna commented. “They would’ve never let us watch something like this in the compound.”

“Well, now you can watch whatever shit you want,” Dean said.

Anna eyed Cas. “Does he always have such a filthy mouth?”

“Yes, Dean’s mouth is quite filthy. In many ways.” Cas burst into another fit of giggles. A shocked Dean didn’t miss the double meaning. Had Cas really just said that aloud? In front of someone else?

Anna looked puzzled. At least the remark had gone over her head.

_Dr. Sexy_ ended in a cliffhanger, Dr. Piccolo slapping Dr. Sexy for lying to her about something or other. (Cas and Anna were too distracting for him to be able to follow the argument.) As the credits rolled, Anna concluded, “That was certainly interesting.” She yawned. “Is it all right if I sleep on the couch?”

Cas stood up. “Yes.”

“No, please don’t go yet. I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“It’s no inconvenience. Right, Dean?”

“Right,” Dean echoed.

A small smile graced Anna’s face. “Okay. Oh, and one more thing.” She paused, and after a minute, Dean wondered when she was going to finish her thought.

“Yes?” Cas prompted her.

“You don’t have to pretend for me.” Dean erupted into a coughing fit.

“What?” Cas replied.

Her smile widened. “I know you two are boyfriends.”

“Why do you think that?” Dean spluttered.

“Because. You’re so in sync. And you keep giving each other smoldering looks.”

“We do _not_ give each other smoldering looks,” Dean objected. Did they? Cas laughed nervously.

“So you can continue to sleep in the same bed. If you like.”

“Who says we—?” Dean started.

“Don’t worry. I’m fine with it. I won’t tell anyone.”

“You are?” Dean and Cas responded in unison.

“Yes.”

“Then why sleep on the couch?” Cas said. “You can have one of the bedrooms.” He canted his head to the side in that adorable way. “Which one should we give her, Dean?”

“How about yours?” Dean suggested. “I want to keep mine. It’s got memory foam.”

“Very well. I’ll put another set of sheets on the bed.”

“I’ll help,” Anna put in.

And then Dean was alone in the living room.

He thought about going to assist them, but he decided against it. Maybe Anna wanted to talk to Cas one-on-one about the Brethren.

A part of him was glad Anna had deduced the true nature of his relationship with Cas. Since they’d begun sharing a bed, Dean’s nightmares had lessened considerably, and he knew Cas’s had, too.

xxxxxxxxxxx 

Castiel peeled the sheets off his bed, carried them out of the room, and tossed them into the laundry hamper by the washer. On his way back, he extracted some sheets from the linen closet and set them down on his desk chair. He grabbed the fitted sheet and shook it out; then Anna spread it out on her side while Castiel did so on his. Next came the other sheet, then the blanket, then the pillowcases.

“Do you think,” Castiel ventured as they stuffed pillows into the pillowcases, “that Dean and I . . . together . . . is wrong?” He couldn’t keep a note of uncertainty out of his voice.

Anna glanced up at him. “No. Why would it be?”

“Um . . . because . . . Dean and I, we . . . are of the same sex.”

“So? Love is love. How can love ever be wrong?”

“How do you know love has anything to do with it?”

She grinned, her eyes sparkling. “I see it in your eyes when you look at him. I see it in his eyes when he looks at you.”

“I hope everyone doesn’t notice,” Castiel worried.

“I don’t think so. I’m good at reading people. I’m not boasting . . . but people have always said it, so I take it to be true.”

Memories of Anna as a girl flooded him. “Yes, I remember. Even when you were a child, your perceptiveness about others . . . it was striking.”

She perched on the edge of the bed, and Castiel joined her. “I bet you’re wondering why I ran away,” she stated.

“I do wonder,” Castiel acknowledged. “But you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“I think maybe you can relate. You see.” She gulped. “You see, I think I may be, well . . . I am attracted to other women.” She took a deep breath. “You know how the Brethren feel about that.” He nodded. “I haven’t told anyone but you. I’m afraid of what will happen if the Brethren know. I’m twenty-two, and they expect us to be married by now. But the thought of being with a man, it makes me . . . I feel sick. Then I would find myself dreaming about Tamar, about being . . . together . . . with her. My best friend.  And I—” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “—I don’t feel like I’m evil. You don’t think I’m evil, do you?” she entreated him.

He clasped her hand. “No.” This young woman in distress—he could see her goodness underneath. Like he could see Dean’s.

“Thank you,” she sniffled. “Knowing that you’re . . . gay, too. . . . It helps.”

“I’m not gay,” Castiel objected. Anna’s body stiffened. “I’m not in denial. I just . . . sexuality is complicated,” he lamented. “Dean is the only person I’ve ever been attracted to. And Dean . . . well, he’s straight. He says I’m the only man he’s ever been attracted to.” Why was he telling her this?

She beamed and wiped her eyes. “You must be soul mates!” she exclaimed.

“You think so?”

“Yes. How else do you explain that kind of attraction?” She yawned.

“Perhaps it’s time you get some sleep,” he pointed out.

“Yes.” She yawned again. “Listen. You won’t tell Dean what I told you, will you? It’s just that I don’t know him very well.”

He squeezed her hand. “You can trust me.”

“Thanks.” She stretched out on the bed. “Good night.”

“Good night.” He switched off the light as he left the bedroom.

He thought about what Anna had said.

Dean and him. Soul mates.

He liked the idea very much.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Dean took the day off so he could help Anna look for possible places to live. He and Cas also wanted to ensure she wasn’t alone in case that Brethren bitch came back. At first, Anna seemed skittish around him, but she gradually grew more comfortable.

She was combing through craigslist on Cas’s old desktop in the corner of the living room. Dean had always heard craigslist was a good website to look for potential residences to rent, so he’d told her to check it out first.

“How about this one?” she called to Dean. Dean scurried off the couch and stood behind her, reading the page she’d brought up.

> _Rent free. SWM looking for HWP SWF to help around the howse and take care of my needz. Must be open to FWB. Send a pic, then we can talk. Lokated downtown._

“It’s free,” she observed. “Although this person doesn’t know how to spell, and I don’t know anything about these acronyms. What do you think?”

“Um, that’s not the sort of place you wanna go. Don’t trust anything that’s free. Also, there are some pervs on craigslist . . . you gotta watch out. You can recognize them because they post things like this and advertise free stuff.”

“Oh. What do the acronyms mean?”

“Single white male. Height-weight-proportional. Single white female. Friends with benefits.” He cleared his throat. “So, basically this guy is looking for a fuck buddy.”

She turned a deep shade of red. “Oh,” she breathed.

Something occurred to him. “Do you even have any money?”

“No.”

“Then you need to find a job before you can look for somewhere to live. Y’know, to get money.”

“Oh.”

God, she was about as naïve as Cas. Obviously, those Brethren people were to blame. He wondered how Cas had ever figured this stuff out. Maybe that priest, Father Simon, had taught him.

“Um . . . how do I find a job?”

Jeez, this was gonna be a long day. “First, you need to make a resume. Here. Wait a minute.” He returned a moment later with a kitchen chair, which he set down next to Anna. “I’ll help you with it. If that’s okay?” She nodded, and he studied her for a second. There was an otherworldly beauty about her, like Cas. Was that a Brethren thing? A Brethren reject thing? Did she have the same sorts of scars as Cas?

“All right,” Dean began. “First, let’s open up Word.” He reached across the keyboard to grab the mouse, and his palm accidentally brushed her hand. “Oops. Sorry.” He clicked Word, and voila. He took his hand off the mouse and explained, “Okay. You’re gonna need to put an address and contact info at the top. You can use our house as the address.” She typed, and when she was done, he continued, “You’re gonna need an email address, but I’ll show you that later. How to use email. Now, there are some other things you need to put on here. Like education and work experience.”

“But I don’t have any of that,” Anna agonized.

“Okay. We’ll have to do a skills resume, then. It’s where you give lots of details about the skills you have. I’m not really sure how to do one of those, but we’ll look on the internet for some examples.”

They browsed resume templates online, and after that Dean illustrated how to use email and helped her set up a gmail account. Then they brainstormed skills to fill the resume with.

“This is all so overwhelming,” Anna despaired.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” Dean assured her. “It just takes a little practice. Now. There’s one more thing. You need three people you can list as references.”

“References?”

“Yeah. People who’ll vouch for you. Hmm. You can use Cas, and I bet Bobby wouldn’t mind. I would let you put me, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

He blushed. “Um, well. I’m not exactly . . . I don’t have such a great reputation in town.”

Damn, she was getting nervous again. “Why not?”

“Um.” He scratched his neck. “I’ve just made some big mistakes.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, you need one more person.” Maybe they could make someone up. But what if they actually checked the references? He thought about it a little more then announced, “I’ve got it. We’ll use Ellen.”

“Ellen?”

“Ellen Harvelle. We should probably ask her first, though. Let’s go pay her a visit.”

“All right.”

Once they were in the Impala, Anna examined the interior, seemingly impressed. She had good taste.

“Ellen works at a bar?” Anna asked when they pulled into Harvelle’s.

“She owns the bar,” Dean corrected.

“Oh.”

Since it was the middle of a weekday afternoon, there weren’t many customers inside, just a man in a corner booth and two women at a far table.

“Hey, Dean,” Jo shouted as she approached them. “Who’s this? Your whore for the week?” Anna looked like she wanted to disappear. He cursed Jo’s sharp tongue.

“Um, no.” He tapped his fingers against the bar, his nerves getting the best of him. “This is Anna. Cas’s—cousin.”

At least Jo had the grace to look embarrassed. She extended a hand and said, “Sorry about that. I’m Jo.”

“Nice to meet you, Jo,” Anna replied as she shook her hand.

“Is your mom in, Jo?” Dean asked.

“Yep. Why?” Jo responded.

“Can we talk to her for a minute?”

“Mom!” she hollered. Ellen appeared a moment later.

“What is it, Jo?” Then she noticed Dean and Anna. “Hi, Dean. Good of you to stop by. Who’s this?”

“Anna. Cas’s cousin.” Ellen and Anna shook hands, and Ellen’s maternal manner seemed to put Anna at ease.

Ellen poured a couple of beers and handed them to Dean and Anna. “On the house,” she declared. Dean took a drink, but Anna held her glass uncertainly. Dean nodded at her, and she sipped tentatively. “How’ve ya been, Dean?”

“Good.”

“And Castiel?”

“He’s good, too.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

After a minute of silence, Dean explained, “I was wondering if I could ask you for a favor.”

“Sure. What is it?”

“Well, Anna here—” He gestured at her. “—is new in town. She needs a job, but she doesn’t have references. Would you, um, be willing to be one for her?”

“She doesn’t have anyone from back home?”

Dean was about to answer, but Anna cut in. “Castiel is my only family. I have no one else in the world. All my friends have abandoned me . . . ” She appeared to be on the verge of tears.

“I’m sorry, honey,” Ellen commiserated. “The past few weeks have been hard for you, huh?” Anna nodded. “All right,” Ellen agreed. “You seem like a sweet girl, and I’m sure you could use a break.”

“Thank you, Ms. Harvelle.”

Ellen smiled at her. “Call me Ellen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I wasn't going to post the next chapter until the weekend, but I finished this chapter earlier than expected. Also, I've set myself the ambitious goal of finishing this story in a week and a half since I'll be out of town for over a week after that. I think there are three chapters left, so we'll see how that works out.
> 
> As always, thank you very much for reading!


	19. The Adversary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.
> 
> Warning: There's a reference to child molestation in this chapter. It's not terribly explicit, but it's very clear.

After they got off work, Dean and Cas headed to a coffee shop, where they were supposed to meet Anna and someone named Charlie Bradbury. Apparently, Charlie owned a comic book store and lived above it, and she was willing to hire Anna in exchange for room and board along with a small salary. Before Anna made her decision, Dean and Cas wanted to meet Charlie and see what they thought of her.

They found Anna and another young woman, no doubt Charlie, sitting in a table in the back corner, their backs against the wall. When they entered the cafe, Anna whispered something to Charlie, who donned a huge grin and waved them over ostentatiously. Like Anna, she was a redhead, and her green eyes sparkled with merriment. She wore an obscenely bright blue shirt with a giant Pac-Man figure in the middle.

“’Sup bitches?” she greeted them. “I’m Charlie Bradbury.”

Dean extended his hand. “I’m Dean Winchester.” She had a rather goofy handshake.

Cas shook her hand a moment later and announced, “Castiel Novak.”

“You’re the one who’s Anna’s cousin,” Charlie said when she withdrew her hand.

“Yes,” Cas confirmed.

“I’ve never heard of anyone named Castiel, but let me tell you. It’s a dreamy-sounding name.” She bit her lip, and Cas blushed. She studied Dean and Cas for another moment and commented, “And may I say, you’re a freakin’ adorkable couple.”

Dean grew livid. “What?! You told her, Anna?!”

Charlie turned red and stared down at the table. “She didn’t tell me anything,” she squeaked. “It was a joke. So . . . you guys are really a couple?” She glanced at Cas’s collar uncertainly.

 _Smooth, Winchester. Way to give it away_. “It’s supposed to be a secret,” Dean muttered.

Charlie nodded vigorously. “I understand. My lips are sealed. So . . . I thought I should get this out of the way first. Does this mean . . . neither of you have any problems with the fact that I’m, um, a lesbian?”

“Not at all,” Cas answered without hesitation. Dean was surprised that Cas seemed so sure of his words.

“’Course not,” Dean mumbled.

Charlie relaxed. “Good. You never know . . . ” Her eyes darted between them again. Dean had never seen anyone who behaved as nervously as she did. “So, are you guys gonna get any coffee or what?” Oh. Dean had forgotten about that. Charlie took a sip from her cup, and Anna did the same.

Cas stood up. “I’ll get it, Dean. You want generous dollops of cream and sugar, right?”

“Yeah.” Why hadn’t he volunteered first? Tons of cream and sugar—that sounded so girly.

“All right. I’ll be back.” An awkward silence ensued until Cas returned with two coffees, one of which he slid over to Dean. “Did I miss anything?” Cas asked.

“Not a damn thing,” Dean replied.

“We were waiting for you to get back,” Charlie declared.

“Oh,” Cas breathed.

Dean cleared his throat. “So? Why don’t you tell us a little about your business, Charlie?”

“Okay. Well,” Charlie began. “I opened it a few months ago, near downtown. I’ve always wanted to own a comic book shop, and I found a killer deal in rent. And the best part is, I get to live above it.

“The store’s really taken off. I’ve been running things by myself, but I could really use the help. Sometimes it gets so busy, you have no freakin’ idea. So.” She shrugged. “That’s basically it, really.”

“What’s it called?” Dean inquired.

“Oh. Um. Haven Comics. Because it provides a safe haven for geeks.”

“Never heard of it.” Cas elbowed him and gave him a look as if to say, _Don’t be rude, Dean_.

“I guess you’re not the targeted clientele. It’s sort of a niche market. There really isn’t anywhere else in town that’s devoted to comics. I think that’s why it’s been successful so far. You’re welcome to stop by anytime.”

“Maybe we will,” Cas interjected.

“Good. I’ve already shown it to Anna. And the apartment, too.”

“They’re both nice,” Anna opined.

Dean doubted whether Anna knew anything about comics. How would she function in a store that dealt solely with them?

“Anna doesn’t seem to know much about our inventory,” Charlie stated, and Dean started. It was almost as if she’d read his mind. “But I can educate her. I’ve already given her a crash course in some of our most popular items.”

“It was fun,” Anna put in with a smile. “I think I’d like working there.”

“She seems to be a fast learner. I’m sure she’d get the hang of things in no time.” She turned to Anna. “Right?”

“Yes.”

Charlie looked back at Dean and Cas. “I’d like to know more about you guys. If you don’t mind? Like, what do you do?” She eyed Cas’s collar. “Well, I can guess what you do. Father.”

Cas nodded. “I am a priest at St. Francis’s.”

“And you, Dean?”

“I’m a mechanic down at Bobby Singer’s place.”

“Okay. Cool. So, how did you guys meet?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Oh. Sorry if I’m being too nosy. It’s just fascinating; you look like such very different people.” Dean gazed at Cas and thought about Charlie’s observation, remembering the first couple of weeks he’d known him. Back then, he’d thought they were too dissimilar to ever be more than acquaintances, if that. And look at them now. Frequently, he found it hard to imagine his life without Cas. They had more in common than he’d initially thought. He wasn’t sure what Cas saw in him, but the sum total of Cas, it was adorable. Perfect. Even with all his strangeness. _Especially_ with his strangeness. He was so endearingly earnest, considerate, _good_. He was someone special, and Dean was lucky to have him.

It hadn’t registered in a long time, but on the surface, he mused, they did look like extremely different people. Cas was neat, clean, with well-brushed hair, a crisp black outfit, collar, and smart black shoes. Often, Dean didn’t even bother with his hair, and his jeans were ragged, his flannel shirt a little faded, his boots well-worn. Oil was caked underneath his fingernails, and sometimes a fleck would stain his cheek.

When he finished contemplating matters, he noticed that Charlie, Anna, and Cas were having an animated conversation about he didn’t even know what. He must’ve zoned out. While gesturing, Charlie knocked over her coffee cup, spilling its contents. Some of the liquid slithered over to Dean’s side and surrounded his cell phone, which he snatched off the table and wiped clean on his shirt.

“God! I’m so sorry!” Charlie exclaimed.

“It’s all right,” Dean assured her.

“I’ll get some napkins,” Cas offered. He came back with a huge stack of them, and he began mopping up the mess. Dean picked up a few and assisted him; then they threw the soaked napkins away.

“Sorry,” Charlie apologized again. “I’m such a klutz.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean insisted.

Anna stood up. “I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be back.”

A moment later, Dean noticed an unwelcome guest approaching their table.

“Hester,” Cas whispered.

“What? Who’s Hester?” Charlie asked as she turned to see who Dean and Cas were looking at.

“Hello, Castiel,” Hester said.

“What do you want?” Dean hissed.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Hester snapped.

Anna returned from the restroom and gaped at Hester. “Hello, Anna,” she greeted her. Anna took a step back, but Hester grabbed her wrist then turned back to Castiel. “I thought you said you’d call me if you saw her.”

“I said I’d consider it,” Cas corrected her.

She examined Anna. “Thank goodness I found you, dear. Now I can take you home.”

“I don’t want to go,” Anna protested.

“Don’t worry. We’re not mad. We just want you back home. We love you very much.” Dean doubted she knew anything about love.

“Please. Let me go,” Anna sniffled.

Dean sprang to his feet. “You heard her,” he demanded. “Let her go, bitch.”

“This isn’t any of your business, _Dean_ ,” Hester warned him.

Charlie stood up and said, “You heard the manly man. Let her go. Bitch.” Charlie clapped a hand over her mouth and cowered against the wall.

“My, such polite friends you have, Castiel.”

“You heard them,” Cas maintained. “Let. Her. Go.” He remained seated, but he sounded much more authoritative than Dean and Charlie had.

“I should’ve known you’d side with the heathens,” Hester snarled. She dragged Anna to the front door, but Cas caught up with them and placed a hand on Hester’s arm. With his other hand, he broke Hester’s grip on Anna.

“I said, let her go,” he repeated in that frightening intense tone of his. “It’s her choice. Not yours.”

Hester gazed at Anna. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked, somehow making herself sound gentle. “We’re your family.” As if she knew what family meant.

“Please. Let me stay,” Anna pleaded.

Hester crossed her arms. “Very well. But don’t come crawling back to us.”

“I won’t.”

“Good-bye, then, Anna. Castiel.” And the bitch was gone.

Cas brought Anna back to the table, and Charlie enfolded her in a hug. Anna buried her face on Charlie’s shoulder, and Charlie patted her on the back.

Dean eyed Charlie. “I like her,” he told Cas.

“Me, too,” Cas said as he and Dean sat back down.

When Anna finished weeping, Charlie and Anna rejoined them at the table. “Who was she?” Charlie ventured. “Hester?”

That question was for Anna to answer.

“She’s a relative of mine,” Anna replied. “And Castiel’s.”

“Our aunt,” Cas inserted.

“Our family . . . ” Anna continued. “They’re not exactly . . . well, I just had to get away.”

“They’re toxic. The sorts of things they do . . . you wouldn’t believe them.” Dean knew discussing the Brethren, even in such vague terms, was painful for Cas, so he squeezed his hand under the table. Cas offered him a grateful smile.

“Oh,” said Charlie. “Well, she doesn’t seem like a very pleasant person.”

Dean laughed. Talk about the understatement of the year. Cas joined him. Charlie gave them a bewildered look, then Anna giggled, and Charlie couldn’t restrain a chuckle of her own. They laughed for so long they forgot why they were even doing it.

xxxxxxxxxx

Castiel was relieved that Anna had moved out of the house, and he knew Dean was as well. He’d enjoyed spending time with Anna, but he was glad to have his privacy back, for him and Dean to be able to make love without fearing Anna might overhear. Charlie’s apartment and comic book shop were both neat and spacious, although filled with quirky decorations. He felt comfortable with Anna working and living over there. Still, he’d need to periodically visit and check in on her.

They’d decided to continue sleeping exclusively in Dean’s room, but Castiel’s possessions would remain in his room.

He couldn’t wait to go home tonight.

All the things he would do with Dean . . .

Thoughts of Dean kept cropping up as he worked. He gave himself a short break to grab a snack and clear his head.

On the way back to his office, he saw something that made him do a double take.

Father Raphael was leaving his office with one of the altar boys, Benjamin Braeden. And he . . .

Castiel hid behind a wall, peeking around the corner, hoping he was wrong about what he’d thought he’d observed.

Father Raphael had an arm slung around Ben’s shoulder. His hand stroked down, over Ben’s back, over Ben’s butt, and up again. Then Father Raphael repeated the cycle.

He was fondling the boy.

Castiel bit his lip and contemplated what he should do. This could _not_ be allowed to go on. He would confront Father Raphael.

Once Father Raphael turned a corner, Castiel stepped into the hallway and directed his steps to Father Raphael’s office, where he waited until Father Raphael returned.

“Hello, Father Castiel,” Father Raphael said when he arrived. “Nice of you to visit. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“What were you doing with that boy, Father Raphael?” Castiel rasped.

“Huh? What boy?”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Castiel retorted, attempting to sustain what Dean called his intense voice. “I saw you with him. Ben Braeden.”

Father Raphael reached for the doorknob, but Castiel blocked his way. “I don’t know what you think you saw—”

“I _know_ what I saw. You were doing questionable things with that altar boy.”

Father Raphael raised his eyebrows. “‘Questionable things’? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Castiel was afraid to speak the words, but he had to be clear. “Sexual things. Molestation.”

Father Raphael guffawed. “You think I’ve been molesting children?”

“Yes.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

Castiel ignored the remark. “I’ll give you one chance,” he proclaimed despite his conscience. Maybe if Father Raphael took his warning to heart, there wouldn’t be a need to drag this any further. To the courts, or wherever, so Ben wouldn’t have to relive the trauma in front of countless witnesses. “Stop what you’ve been doing, or I’ll tell Father Michael.”

Father Raphael chortled. “It’s not much different than what you’ve been doing with Dean Winchester.”

Castiel recoiled. “Dean and I have done nothing wrong.”

“Now you’re the one who’s playing dumb. I know you and Dean Winchester have been carrying on a sexual relationship. I’ve known it since you showed up with that ‘bee sting.’”

“It’s different,” Castiel objected.

“Oh, so you admit it?”

“As do you.”

Father Raphael wiped his brow. “I suppose I did. We know each other’s secrets, Father Castiel. We should keep them.”

“ _No_. What you’ve been doing . . . you’ve been harming that boy.”

“As I said, it’s the same thing you’ve been doing with Dean Winchester.”

“I haven’t harmed anyone. It’s not the same.”

“Oh, but it is, in the eyes of God.”

Castiel flinched. According to the Church’s teachings, Father Raphael spoke the truth. They were both egregious sins.

“I’m going to tell Father Michael,” Castiel insisted.

“If you do that, I’ll tell him about you and Dean Winchester.” Castiel’s eyes watered. “Good day, Father Castiel.” This time, Castiel let Father Raphael waltz into his office; then he bolted to his office and shut the door.

Teardrops dripped onto the paper on his desk.

What should he do?

He could _not_ let Father Raphael continue abusing Ben. And what if Ben wasn’t the only one?

But if Father Raphael mentioned Dean to Father Michael . . . he’d be ruined.

It might even discredit his testimony against Father Raphael.

There was only one course of action he could think of.

But it would break Dean’s heart.

And his own.

xxxxxxxxxx

Castiel stayed at St. Francis’s long after Father Raphael and Father Michael had gone.

He couldn’t sit at his desk anymore. He huddled on the floor in a corner of the room, his arms clasped around his knees, which he’d pulled up to his chin.

He’d racked his brains for other ideas, but none had been forthcoming.

Tomorrow, he’d talk to Father Michael about Father Raphael.

But first, he’d have to cut Dean out of his life.

Tonight.

And he couldn’t . . . he couldn’t let Dean stick around. It would hurt too much.

Not only would he have to cease his relationship with Dean, but he’d also have to order Dean to move out.

His legs trembled, and he burst into another fit of tears, his face burrowed in his arms.

Eventually, he forced himself to go home. He needed to prepare dinner; he owed Dean that much, at least, before he ripped out his heart.

“You’re home late,” Dean pointed out when Castiel walked into the living room.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel replied.

“What, no ‘honey I’m home’ kiss?” Castiel couldn’t manage a full kiss, but he did peck Dean on the cheek. Dean looked surprised, but he didn’t say anything about it. “Why’re you so late, anyway?” he asked.

“I had a lot of work to do,” Castiel lied. Well, it wasn’t really a lie; he did have many tasks to complete, but he hadn’t been able to concentrate on them. “I’ll go make dinner.”

When the meal was ready, he called Dean into the kitchen, and they commenced eating. Dean tried to make conversation, but Castiel gave him only cursory answers. After a while, Dean studied him then inquired, “What’s wrong, Cas?”

Castiel shrugged and attempted a smile. “Nothing. Why would you think anything’s wrong?”

“You don’t look well.” Dean reached across for his hand, but Castiel snatched it away before their fingers could brush. Dean frowned.

Did Castiel really have to do this? Follow through with his plan?

Perhaps he could tell Dean about his encounter with Father Raphael. Maybe Dean could help him think of another idea.

No. He didn’t need to involve Dean in this mess. He should take care of it himself. Besides, Dean’s assistance wouldn’t prevent their relationship from becoming public knowledge; it would do the opposite.

Something had to be done about Father Raphael.

Right. So he was going to approach Father Michael about it. And when he went to Father Michael, he’d have to be above reproach.

Which meant no more Dean.

He stared down at his food for a few minutes, and he felt Dean’s eyes on him. He couldn’t eat anymore, so he placed his fork on the table and told Dean, “You’re right. I don’t feel so well.”

He rushed to the bathroom, locked the door, and gripped the sides of the sink. He glanced in the mirror and started at the sight of his pallor.

Tears poured out of his eyes again, accompanied by shuddering sobs. He forced himself to stay quiet so Dean wouldn’t overhear and become suspicious. He coughed, gagged, and swallowed. His hands tightened around the sink. When he could weep no more, he steeled himself, practicing his expression in the mirror until it appeared neutral.

“Are you all right, Cas?” Dean asked when he returned to the kitchen. Castiel noticed that Dean had cleared the table and put away the leftovers, and he had to remind himself that he couldn’t show any emotion.

“I’m fine, Dean,” he answered flatly as he sat down across from him. “We need to have a talk.”

Dean looked puzzled. “Sure, Cas. A talk. What about?”

“You.”

“Me? Okay. What about me?”

“We . . . can’t go on as we were before.”

Dean furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

“Us. Our relationship. It’s over.”

“What?”

“It’s over,” Castiel repeated. “And tomorrow. You can’t come back here. Ever again.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Where’s this coming from, Cas?”

“My conscience. I told you before. We’ve been sinning, and I’m putting a stop to it.”

“But—”

“I’m sorry, Dean. This is the way it must be.”

“But we love each other,” Dean whispered.

Castiel closed his eyes and braced himself for what he must do. Then he looked Dean in the eye and declared, his tone cold, “No, Dean. I do not love you.”

Dean’s eyes widened, their green darkening with shock. After a moment he stood up and announced, in a voice stripped of all emotion but a sliver of hurt, “I’m going to sleep in my car.” He closed the door softly on his way out.

Once he was sure Dean wasn’t coming back, Castiel erupted into a fresh fit of crying. “I’m sorry, Dean!” he wailed. “I’m _so, so_ sorry!”

“I do love you, Dean,” he choked out.

The words flowed out in sobbing gasps, breathing sometimes coming with great difficulty. “I’m sorry. I love you, Dean. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Dean. I love you. I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry. Dean. Dean. Please. I’m sorry. I love you. Dean. Sorry. I love I’m sorry. Love. Dean. Sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting close to the end here. There should be two chapters left.
> 
> As ever, thanks for reading!


	20. Apostasy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.
> 
> Warning: There's discussion of child molestation in this chapter. Also, suicide plans.

Castiel’s eyes fluttered open in the pre-dawn light. Somehow, he’d fallen asleep with his head on the table, and his neck hurt, but that didn’t compare to the pain in his heart.

He couldn’t stand to see Dean again after what he’d done to him. He knew it was the right decision even though a part of him kept screaming it was _wrong, wrong, wrong_.

He might as well go to work soon, but he couldn’t walk by Dean in his Impala. He peeked through the blinds, glanced at the driveway, and noticed that Dean’s car was not there. Where could he have gone to at this time? Bobby’s garage didn’t open for another couple of hours.

At least he’d be spared the painful sight of Dean on his way out. 

Castiel ambled into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. While completing the motion, he noticed red rims surrounding both of his eyes. He should take a shower, but he couldn’t muster up the energy. He looked down at his clothes and saw they were wrinkled, so he changed into another set. He grabbed a granola bar, rushed to his car, and drove toward St. Francis’s.

Neither Father Raphael nor Father Michael was there yet, so he spent a little time in his office staring at the walls and wiping away stray tears. He hadn’t known it was possible to cry so much.

When he was sure Father Raphael and Father Michael had arrived, he headed to the breakroom and poured himself a cup of coffee; then he joined his colleagues at the table.

“You were early today, Father Castiel,” Father Michael remarked. 

“Yes,” Castiel responded. “I have quite a bit of work to catch up on. I’m still thinking about my homily for this Sunday.”

“Goodness! You haven't yet decided what you’re going to talk about?” 

Castiel stared down at the table. “No. I’ve had some ideas, but none of them have seemed right so far.” It took an enormous effort to maintain all this inconsequential small talk.

He could feel Father Raphael’s eyes scrutinizing him the entire time. He wanted nothing more than to flee. Father Raphael was a monster in sheep’s clothing. _Don’t judge_ , he reminded himself. _You don’t have the right_. But it was hard not to after he’d discovered the despicable things Father Raphael had been doing. _You’ve no right_ , he repeated to himself. _You’ve committed your share of vile deeds. Balthazar. That in itself is bad enough, but you know there’s much, much more . . ._  

Castiel was a monster, too, and Dean was lucky to be rid of him, even if he didn’t feel that way at the moment. Yes, Dean’s life would be better, simpler, without him.

It had been the right choice. For the greater good. 

As Father Raphael continued to examine him, Castiel realized that Father Raphael would be closely watching him all day. How could he approach Father Michael without Father Raphael noticing?

At lunchtime, of course. Father Raphael always ate his lunch off the premises. 

He resolved to visit Father Michael around noon.

xxxxxxxxxx 

After he observed Father Raphael depart for lunch, he strode toward Father Michael’s office and knocked on the door. “Come in!” Father Michael called. Castiel twisted the doorknob and stepped into Father Michael’s office, an uncertain smile on his face. 

“Hello, Father Michael,” Castiel greeted him.

“Hello, Father Castiel,” Father Michael replied. “What can I do for you?” 

Castiel cleared his throat. “May I speak with you for a minute, Father Michael? Alone?”

“Sure. Shut the door, will you?” Castiel followed Father Michael’s suggestion; then Father Michael gestured toward the chair across from him. “Sit.” Castiel sat down, folded his hands in his lap, and tried to meet Father Michael’s eyes with a level gaze. “What is it you wish to discuss?” 

Castiel clasped his hands together, wringing them. “I don’t know how to begin to say this. There’s something that is bothering me, that I am very worried about.”

Father Michael arched an eyebrow. “Oh? What might that be?” 

“It concerns Father Raphael.”

“What about Father Raphael?” When Castiel had walked into his office, Father Michael’s demeanor had been kind, but now something about Father Michael frightened him. He couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but all of a sudden, Castiel felt claustrophobic. 

He told himself he was imagining things. He needed to proceed with the plan. “I have reason to believe he has been doing . . . things . . . with the altar boys . . . molesting them.” The last two words came out in a shaky whisper.

Father Michael offered him a hard smile. “What makes you think that?” 

“I saw him with one of the boys yesterday,” he rasped.

Father Michael shrugged. “That’s none of my affair.” Castiel stared in open-mouthed shock. “There is no one without sin, you know,” Father Michael continued. “If we defrocked every priest who sinned, there’d be no more of us left. Just look at you and Dean Winchester.” 

“What?” Castiel gasped.

“You two have been having sex, have you not?” 

Castiel laughed nervously. “Why would you think that?”

“Father Raphael told me about that love bite on your neck.” 

Castiel attempted to keep his breathing steady. There was no use in denying everything now. “It’s not the same,” he whispered.

Father Michael’s unpleasant smile grew larger. “But it is. Your deeds—sodomy. Father Raphael’s deeds—sodomy.” 

“It’s different,” Castiel insisted.

“It’s really not.” 

“Yes, it is!” Castiel exclaimed as his eyes grew moist. “Dean is a consenting adult!”

“I don’t see how that factors into this.” 

“It’s a matter of choice,” Castiel explained softly. “And being taken advantage of.” A teardrop escaped from his eye, and he swiped it away. He reached up with one hand, ripped his collar off, and tossed it onto Father Michael’s desk. “I don’t want this anymore,” he proclaimed before jumping to his feet and stumbling out of the room. He rushed home and contemplated his next move.

What should he do? What could he do? 

What had he just done?

He’d quit his job. Oh, there were official procedures and such to go through, but for all practical purposes, that’s what he’d just done. 

That didn’t solve the problem of Father Raphael, though.

If Father Michael didn’t care to do anything about it, there had to be another way. But what? 

He thought about the matter for a long time until he hit upon an idea.

He would write two anonymous letters, one to Lisa Braeden, the other to the diocese. In these letters, he’d detail Father Raphael’s actions and explain that Father Michael was deliberately overlooking them. 

What next?

There was nothing after that. No priesthood. No Dean. 

He couldn’t go running back to Dean now, not after what he’d done to him. He’d effectively ended that relationship, told Dean he did not care for him. Even if there was a chance Dean would take him back, Castiel shouldn’t let him. Dean shouldn’t be burdened with the screwed-up monster Castiel was.

Outside of the priesthood, he had no skills. He was too old to start over in a new vocation. 

There was nothing here for him anymore. He didn’t belong. Minus occasional visits with Anna, he was doomed to a life of loneliness and aimlessness.

Once upon a time, he might have been able to bear it, but not since he’d become friends with Dean. 

It was the life he deserved, but he didn’t want it.

He didn’t want to accept his punishment.

So he’d give himself a lesser penalty, the cowardly way out.

He’d deliver the letters to the mail; then he’d kill himself.

Yes. The more he thought about it, the more resolved he became. 

He typed the letters and the addresses on the envelopes to ensure his handwriting wouldn’t give him away. After he stuffed the letters into the envelopes, he went to the post office and waited in line.

“Where’s your collar, Father?” the man behind the counter asked when Castiel reached the head of the line.

Castiel had forgotten about his wardrobe, and he glanced down at his neck and chuckled uncertainly. “I guess I forgot to put it on,” he lied.

“One of those days, huh? Well, then. What can I do for you?”

“I would like to buy two stamps, please.”

The man handed him two stamps and asked, “Is that all?”

“Yes.”

He paid for the stamps then exited the building. Outside, he stuck the stamps onto the envelopes before throwing them into the mailbox.

Time for phase two.

He drove to the supermarket and directed his steps to the pharmacy section. He found a large bottle of sleeping pills, the most expensive brand. Maybe those would work best. Besides, what did money matter now?

On his way to the cash register, he noticed a couple pointing and giggling at him. He heard two middle-aged men muttering something about “that fruity priest.” He whirled to look at them, but they turned away and pretended to be interested in the carrots nearby.

The whole town couldn’t know about him and Dean, could they? Hester had guessed it. Anna had guessed it. Father Raphael and Father Michael knew. Charlie Bradbury knew.

Dean and he surely weren’t that obvious, were they?

No, he suspected something different. Father Raphael had started rumors after Father Michael had informed him about his encounter with Castiel. That sounded like just the sort of thing Father Raphael would do. Stop in for a cup of coffee and a chat with the barista, where he’d let slip a telling remark. The contents of that remark would then spread. It’d happened before.

It didn’t matter. Soon, Castiel would be gone.

After he paid for the sleeping tablets, he returned home and poured himself a glass of water, setting the bottle of pills beside it.

He sent a text message to Dean:

> _I’m sorry, Dean. Good-bye._

He sat down and gathered his courage.

xxxxxxxxxx

Dean hadn’t been able to sleep in Cas’s driveway.

He hadn’t been able to sleep, period, but staying in Cas’s driveway only served to make him feel worse. 

So at about four in the morning, he moved his car halfway across town to another neighborhood, one near Bobby’s garage.

He lay in the backseat, hugging his jacket to himself. 

He swiped at his eyes with the palm of his hand.

How could Cas have said those things to him? 

He’d thought he’d known Cas. After dinner, when Cas had begun speaking, Dean had sensed something was up, that Cas was hiding something from him. Okay, so perhaps Cas was finally rejecting him in favor of the Church. He could live with that. Maybe. As long as he knew Cas still loved him.

But then Cas had pronounced those words. 

_“No, Dean. I do not love you.”_

Dean wouldn’t have believed them if it weren’t for the expression in Cas’s eyes. 

So icy blue and _empty_.

As if Dean meant nothing more to him than a random stranger. 

But Cas had loved him before. He knew that.

So, what had changed? 

Had Dean done something? If so, what? Why couldn’t Cas just talk about it with him rather than tossing him aside like that?

He _loved_ Cas, and then Cas had to go and do something like this. 

He _hated_ Cas.

Goddammit! 

He swung a fist at a window, and it shattered. He watched as glass cascaded to the ground, as a few chips bounced into the interior.

Fuck, but his hand hurt. 

He looked at it and found blood dripping from his knuckles.

Fuck. 

He grabbed some napkins from the glove compartment and used them to staunch the blood flow.

With his clean hand, he clutched his leather jacket; then, he buried his face in it. 

He closed his eyes and let the leather absorb the tears.

xxxxxxxxxxx 

“What the hell happened to your hand?” Bobby asked when Dean showed up at the auto shop.

Dean shrugged and glanced at the cuts on his knuckles. “An accident.”

Bobby snorted. “Some accident. Here. You can’t work with it like that. It’ll reopen. We’ll wrap it up.” He disappeared into the back and returned a moment later with a roll of gauze, which he unraveled as he held Dean’s wrist with surprising gentleness.

“Thanks, Bobby,” Dean muttered when Bobby had finished the task. 

“No problem.”

Dean got to work, but he kept making stupid mistakes, his mind dazed by the events of last night. One last error caused Bobby to curse. “C’mon, Dean,” Bobby ordered. “You’re workin’ the cash register.”

“Okay,” Dean replied, grateful for the reprieve. For a while, he did fine at the cash register. But then he heard someone in the waiting room gossiping on the phone.

“Yeah, I heard the priest’s a faggot,” a woman said.

He dropped the keys he was holding, and they clanked as they hit the counter. The customer standing in front of him gave him a perturbed look, and Dean forced a smile as he slid the keys to him. The man lingered there for a few minutes, but Dean wasn’t aware of it; instead, he focused on listening to the woman conversing in the waiting room. “Where’s my receipt?” the man grumbled.

Dean’s attention snapped back to him. “Oh, sorry,” he mumbled as he practically threw the receipt at the man. He glared at Dean before leaving the shop.

“There’s always been something off about him, if you ask me,” the woman continued.

“It’s always the good ones who get into scandals.”

“The cashier keeps staring at me. It’s kind of creepy.”

Dean blushed and moved his eyes to the cash register.

Had Cas known that this would happen? That their secret had gotten out? Did that explain last night’s behavior? Like, maybe he was trying to break off the relationship to prevent it from becoming a topic of gossip.

But how did everyone suddenly know? Who’d told them? Why didn't they seem to know about Dean's involvement?

He didn’t think either Anna or Charlie was responsible.

Hester? 

Maybe she really had guessed the truth.

But why would anyone in this town care what Hester thought?

But Cas knew the story behind it. Dean had no doubt about that.

Another customer approached the front desk and paid his bill. Dean handed him his receipt, but he eyed Dean with annoyance. “What?” Dean prompted.

The guy tapped his foot impatiently. “Where’s my change?”

“Oh. Oops. Um. How much did you give me?” 

He rolled his eyes. “Forty dollars.”

Dean opened the cash register and extracted the man’s change. “Sorry about that,” he mumbled.

“Whatever.”

“Dean,” Bobby called from behind him. Dean spun around, Bobby beckoned with a finger, and Dean followed him into the back.

“What the hell’s gotten into ya, boy?” Bobby inquired.

Dean tried to laugh it off. “Nothin’.”

“It’s not nothin’. I know you good enough for that. You’re not bein’ this sloppy on purpose.” Dean crossed his arms. “So, what is it that’s botherin’ ya, son?”

“Can we skip the heart-to-heart?” Dean complained.

“Sure. But I still want ya to tell me what’s wrong.”

“Why?”

“Just tell me, dammit!”

Dean stared down at the ground. “It’s not that big a deal. It’s just, Cas and me, we had a fight. I can’t go back there tonight.”

“Why not? Why can’t ya just kiss and make up?” Startled, Dean raised his eyes, and Bobby added, “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah. But I can’t.”

“Why not? Why do ya hafta be so stubborn?”

Dean scuffed the floor with the toe of his boot. “You don’t understand. It’s complicated.”

“You guys had a disagreement. Things like that shouldn’t tear friends apart. It’s that simple.”

“No,” Dean mumbled. Bobby looked exasperated, and before Dean thought through the wisdom of the decision, he confessed, “He broke up with me.”

Bobby furrowed his brow. “What do you mean he broke up with you? He doesn’t want to be your friend anymore?” Dean gazed at Bobby, and after a moment, Dean witnessed realization dawning in Bobby’s eyes. “What?! You’re tellin’ me you’ve been sleepin’ with a freakin’ _priest_?!” Dean nodded, his eyes halfway on Bobby, halfway on the floor. “What in the hell made you think that was a good idea, son?”

“What’s this I hear about my son and a priest?” a familiar voice shouted. Bobby and Dean both turned to face John Winchester. Dean started shaking. He could not deal with this right now.

“Is anyone gonna fuckin’ answer me?” John cried.

Dean’s cell phone beeped, and he snatched it out of his pocket. It was a message from Cas.

Excitement, nervousness, and dread pierced him.

He opened it.

> _I’m sorry, Dean. Good-bye._

He trembled even more and shoved the phone in Bobby’s face, not paying heed to the intense discussion he and John seemed to be having. “Bobby?” he said in a quivering voice. “What does that mean, Bobby? What does it mean?”

“Demon . . . priest . . . ” he heard slip from his dad’s mouth.

“Bobby, what does that mean?” Dean repeated.

“It’s him,” Dad muttered.

“Bobby—”

Bobby swatted Dean’s hand away, and Dean chewed the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from sobbing. He stared at the message again.

> _I’m sorry, Dean. Good-bye._

Four cryptic words.

_Good-bye . . ._

Cas was moving?

No, that couldn’t be it.

 _Good-bye_.

He gasped, suddenly fearing the worst.

No. _No._ That couldn’t be it, either.

Surely not.

Right?

But what if it was?

What if Cas was about to hurt himself?

“John!” Bobby yelled as Dad stalked out of the shop.

“Where’s he going?” Dean demanded, his words slurring together. “Bobby! Where’s he going?” Bobby just looked at him with stunned eyes.

“I know where he’s going,” he whispered to himself as he dashed out of the garage. _It’s where I’m going_.

He sped toward Cas’s house and sure enough, John’s truck was parked by the curb.

Cas opened the door, and John stepped inside.

xxxxxxxxxx 

To prepare himself for what he was about to do, Castiel inhaled and exhaled slowly, deeply. Meditated a little.

Loud knocking and incessant doorbell-ringing broke his concentration.

He got up and peered through the peephole. On the other side stood an unfamiliar man with shaggy brown hair. Castiel opened the door and smiled. “Hello,” he said.

“Hi,” the man snarled as he shoved Castiel and slammed the door closed behind him. He studied Castiel with enraged eyes. “Your name is Cas or Castiel or something like that?” he attempted to ascertain through clenched teeth.

Puzzled, Castiel frowned. “Yes. I am Castiel Novak.”

The man grasped his shoulders and pushed Castiel into the living room then thrust him against the wall, pinning him there. “You must be him,” he hissed. “The demon. You seduced my son. Killed my wife.”

“Oh,” Castiel sighed. “You must be John Winchester.”

“Damn right I am!” John Winchester spat, droplets of saliva landing above Castiel’s lip. He pulled out a revolver, which he pointed at Castiel. “Payback’s a bitch,” he sneered.

Castiel shivered at the coldness of the barrel against his forehead. “Go ahead,” he urged. “Do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, got to end the second-to-last chapter on a cliffhanger.
> 
> If all goes according to plan, the last chapter should be posted by the end of the week.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	21. Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.

“Go ahead. Do it.”

Those words, spoken in a desperate version of Cas’s gravelly voice, greeted Dean when he stepped through the kitchen door. _Do what?_ he briefly wondered, but he hadn’t needed to round the corner to discover the answer. Instinctively, he knew.

But when he did set eyes on the sight in the living room, a hammer struck the glass of his heart, bursting it into shards. _Dad_ and _Castiel_. _A gun._ He clutched his chest in panic. _Breathe, Winchester_ , he told himself. He wouldn’t be any good to anyone if he collapsed in a ball of anxiety.

This is where his father’s training would come in handy. He moved stealthily but quickly, and neither Cas nor Dad seemed to be aware of his presence. One long second passed. Another long second. Cas lifted his eyes and spotted Dean. The blue widened, and in that nanosecond Dean registered their expression of utter defeat. He stifled a whimper which threatened to materialize. _Focus. Make no noise._ He signaled to Cas with a finger to his lips. Another second. And another. A millisecond and—

He tackled his dad and snatched the gun away in one motion. Dad toppled to the floor, the force of it dragging Dean down with him. Dad grasped his wrist, and the gun slipped from his fingers. Dad reached back with another arm, flipped Dean around, and thrust him against the wall, knocking Dean’s breath out of him. A fist pounded into his jaw once. Again.

“You!” John screeched venomously. “You would choose a demon over your own father! Your own mother!”

“Daddy—” he began, barely able to breathe the word, but more blows rained on him. He felt blood dribbling from his nose and lips.

“Fuckin’ traitor!” Dad hissed.

“Daddy—” he tried again, but then two hands enclosed themselves around his neck, and his vision grew blurry, life difficult to cling to.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Dean’s appearance was the last thing Castiel had expected. He’d scarcely perceived his presence, despairing because Dean would witness his father shooting him, when both Winchesters tumbled to the ground.

John Winchester was pummeling his son. Castiel’s view of the scene was disjointed, obscured by tears.

“Stop it!” Castiel tried to yell, but the words came out in a pitiful whine even he struggled to hear. “Please!” he added, but his voice still sounded too quiet.

He couldn’t just stand there and watch the elder Winchester’s actions, but he didn’t know what to do—

He jumped on John and tried to wrench him off of Dean, but he merely shrugged him off. His second attempt met with the same result.

And oh, God, no, now his hands were on Dean’s neck, he was going to _kill_ him—

Castiel’s actions were automatic, frantic, as his desperation increased. An object was in his hand, and it struck John Winchester in the back of the head. John flinched, but he didn’t cease his attack on Dean. Another strike. And again.

John Winchester crumpled onto the carpet, his body still.

Blood. The hair on the back of his head was matted with blood.

Castiel glanced at what was in his hand.

A snow globe. The one Dean had given him for Christmas.

Tainted with blood.

_No._

The snow globe crashed to the floor, scattering countless chips of glass.

Dean knelt by his father’s side, tears streaming from his eyes. “Dad?” he sniffled. “Daddy?”

“Oh, my God. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” Castiel stammered. “I didn’t mean—I—I don’t know what—I, I, I . . . ” Dean gazed up at him with weary, sorrowful eyes. “I’ll . . . turn myself in. Yes.” Castiel was crying now, his sobs hollow to his ears. “I’m sorry. I’ll turn myself in and explain everything. I’ll call the police.—”

“No, Cas.”

xxxxxxxxxxx 

Dean stood up on unsteady legs and fixed Cas with a level look.

He had a choice: Dad or Cas.

He chose Cas.

“But—” Cas objected.

“I said _no, Cas_ ,” Dean repeated. “I’m not losing you again.” For he apprehended it now: last night, Cas had lied. He still didn’t know why, but he’d coax the secret out of him.

Cas chewed his lip for a few minutes then suggested, “Maybe if I tell them it was an accident—”

Dean laughed bitterly. “You think anyone’s gonna believe a notorious drunk and a disgraced priest?”

Cas wiped the tears from beneath his eyes. “I should turn myself in. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Screw the right thing.” Dean embraced Cas and rested his chin on his shoulder, whispering in his ear, “I’m not letting you go, Cas. Never.”

Cas had treated him better than anyone else ever had. Including Dad. Unlike Dad, he didn’t play games with his love. Unlike with Dad, he was sure Cas loved him back.

And it _had_ been an accident. He deplored what had happened, but he couldn’t blame Cas. Cas had saved his life. Again.

Dean kissed Cas on the temple, and Cas pulled back abruptly. “But your _father_ , Dean—”

Dean glanced down at John Winchester’s glassy eyes then bent down and closed them. He offered Cas a rueful smile. “But I love you, Castiel.”

“I love you, too, Dean,” Cas wept. “I really do. Last night, I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t,” Dean said softly. Cas looked astonished, opened his mouth as if he was about to speak, but Dean’s cell phone interrupted him. Dean dug it out of his pocket. “Shit,” he muttered. “It’s Bobby.” He cleared his throat and prepared himself to lie out of his ass. “Hey, Bobby!” he answered with false enthusiasm. He walked into the kitchen, sat down at the table, grabbed a few paper towels, and wiped the blood from his nose and lips.

“Hey, Dean,” he replied. “Just wanted to check up on ya. Did ya figure out where your old man was goin’?”

“Yeah, I found him. We’re home now. With Cas.” Technically, that wasn’t a lie.

“Really? Is everythin’ all right?”

“Yeah. Hunky-dory.” Hunky-dory? He never said that.

“You sure?” Bobby sounded skeptical.

“Yeah. We’re just havin’ a talk.”

“Uh-huh. He was in some state when he left. You want me to come over there?”

“What? No. You don’t need to come over. Dad’s calmed down a little. He’s fine now.”

“If you say so.”

“Yeah. Listen, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah, okay. Bye, Dean.”

“Bye, Bobby.”

Whew. That had been close.

As he hung up, Dean noticed two things on the table: a bottle of pills and a glass of water. He raised his eyes up to Cas, who leaned against the threshold to the living room. “Cas?” he whispered, his eyes darting back to the stuff on the table. Cas wouldn’t meet his gaze.

So Dean had been right—Cas had been planning to harm himself.

An image popped into Dean’s mind, both him and Cas swallowing the contents of that bottle and dying like lovers in some sordid soap opera.

But that’s not what he wanted—he wanted to live. With Cas. Forever.

Despite Dad.

“We need to make a plan,” Dean pointed out.

Cas joined him at the table. “You still want to go through with this?” he said quietly. He sounded so broken.

“Yeah,” Dean mumbled. “We can’t stay here. Obviously.” Cas stared at him silently. “We’ll leave tonight. Pack a few things. You know, take necessities.”

“Why not leave now?” Cas ventured.

“Because.” Dean eyed the living room uneasily. “We’ve got to get rid of. You know. We can’t do that until nighttime.” Dean paused and braced himself, trying to make himself sound dispassionate. “We’ll have to burn him. Buy us some time.”

“I’ll do it,” Cas offered.

“No. I will.” He owed Dad that much.

“I should. It’s my fault.”

“He’s my dad,” Dean argued. Cas’s posture told him he wouldn’t budge, and neither would Dean. “Together,” he breathed. He rummaged under the kitchen sink for the trash bags. Cas furrowed his brows. “We can’t risk anyone seeing us carry him,” he explained.

“Where are we going to burn him?” Cas whispered.

Yeah, they couldn’t do it in city limits. Fire was prohibited, so that would be suspicious. “At his cabin.”

Cas swallowed. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked again. “I meant it. I’ll turn myself in.”

“I’m not changing my mind,” Dean asserted. He extracted two large trash bags out of the box and handed one to Cas. He strode into the living room, Cas following. They shook out the garbage bags and began stuffing . . . it . . . into the first one. Dean had to squash it to get it inside. Cas took the other bag and draped it over the head.

Once they’d finished, the thought of what he’d just done . . .

Dean felt sick.

He rushed into the bathroom, gripped the sink, and threw up.

That is, he would’ve thrown up if he’d eaten anything today.

Instead, he collapsed into a fit of dry heaving. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Cas watching him.

He continued gagging, coughing, sobbing, for a long time. When he looked up, Cas was no longer there. He staggered into the living room. No Cas. He progressed to the kitchen, and there he found Cas clutching the doorknob.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he slurred. Cas studied the ground. “You were going to turn yourself in, weren’t you?” He lunged forward, grabbed Cas, and shoved him into a chair. “What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?” he cried. “I just lost my dad. I’m not losing you, too.” Cas fidgeted, twisting his fingers, guilt writ across his face at the mention of Dad.

Fucking hell. He’d do anything to take that away from Cas.

Dean sank into a chair. “Why don’t you tell me what last night was all about?” he suggested gently.

xxxxxxxxxx 

Castiel didn’t understand why Dean wouldn’t let him turn himself in. He’d _murdered_ his father. Never mind that John Winchester could quite possibly have killed his son; Castiel should’ve found a way to stop him that didn’t involve his death.

But he’d blanked out, not even able to think, just determined to save Dean.

He’d accomplished that much at least. Purple bruises covered Dean’s neck, reminding him of that night in November when Dean had come home from his father’s.

Dean was okay, though. Alive. That was what mattered most.

But now Dean was rendering himself an accessory by not allowing Castiel to go to the police. He was sacrificing his life for him. Abetting him, planning to go on the run with him.

He shouldn’t. It wasn’t fair to Dean.

Castiel deserved to go to jail. Not merely for this, but so much more. What he’d done with the Brethren.

And only a couple of hours ago, he’d been willing to give up his life. Might as well spend it in prison, receiving the punishment due him.

If only he could prevent Dean from sacrificing himself for the monster Castiel was.

After everything that’d happened, why did Dean even care about last night?

Maybe he could lie to Dean again, pretend he didn’t love him even though he’d contradicted that a little while ago. Then Dean would leave him, and he could go to prison.

But he didn’t think he could be convincing a second time. Dean would see right through it.

So he explained everything about Father Raphael. About going to Father Michael, about Father Michael’s response. About quitting the priesthood. About having nothing left to live for.

Dean reached for his hand, rubbed his palm. “Jesus, Cas,” he murmured.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel apologized, knowing he should pull his hand away, that he didn’t deserve Dean’s comfort. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to break contact with Dean. “It was a stupid plan. I should’ve told you in the beginning. Then none of this would’ve happened,” he lamented.

“It’s not your fault Father Raphael is a fuckin’ bastard,” Dean commiserated. “Or that Father Michael is a son of a bitch.” He paused then added, “So, is that why people in town have been gossiping about you?”

“I think so,” Castiel replied. “I think Father Raphael has been spreading rumors about me to discredit anything I might say against him.”

“Douchebag. And those kids . . .”

“I wrote some letters,” Castiel said. “Anonymous letters. With any luck, they’ll put a stop to Father Raphael.”

“I hope so.” Dean continued to massage his palm, and Castiel couldn’t restrain his tears.

“Why’re you being so nice to me?” he wailed. “You should hate me.” He snatched his hand away and buried his face in both hands. “Hate me. Please.”

“What, so you can off yourself? Nuh uh.”

“But what I’ve done. It’s unforgivable.”

Dean pried Castiel’s hands away from his face and tilted his chin up so that their eyes met. “Remember? I told you I could never hate you. This is my choice. This is what I want. You.” His fingertips ghosted across Castiel’s lips. “Please let me have it.” Castiel nodded, and Dean stood up. “We should get packing.”

They went to their rooms and threw items into suitcases and duffel bags.

Castiel wished Dean had given him up.

But a selfish part of him was grateful Dean refused to leave him.

It enkindled a fierce fire in his heart.

xxxxxxxxxx 

“We’re taking the Impala,” Dean announced after they’d piled their bags in the living room. Castiel nodded. He hadn’t expected otherwise. “We can probably start putting some of this stuff in the car.”

They each picked up two bags and carried them to the Impala. In the back on the driver’s side, the window was missing. A question was on the tip of Castiel’s tongue, but then he saw that Dean’s hand was wrapped in gauze. He must’ve been too distracted to notice it earlier. Castiel sensed it—that wound was his fault, too.

He’d hurt Dean in so many ways.

And ruined his life.

But Dean said this was what he _wanted_.

Castiel couldn’t say no because he wanted it, too.

“Oh, yeah, that,” Dean said when he caught Castiel staring at the empty window space. “I’ll hafta fix it before we leave. How about I do it now? If you want to bring the bags out.”

“Okay.” Castiel responded. They went back inside, Castiel to grab more bags, Dean to find supplies. “You have glass for that window?” Castiel asked.

“Yep. Somewhere in the shed.” Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Bobby gives me lots of random shit from the garage,” he explained before proceeding to the backyard.

Castiel deposited two more bags in the Impala then returned for the last two. The zipper on one of them was broken, which allowed Castiel to see its contents. Dean’s cassette collection. “I thought you said we were only bringing essentials,” he observed when he met Dean by the car.

“Those are essentials!” Dean claimed. “You wanna listen to crappy music and static while we’re on the road?”

“Then I’m going to bring some of my CDs,” Castiel replied.

“CDs?”

“Yes. You have a CD player in there. I’ve seen it.”

“Fine,” he grumbled. “Just don’t bring anything dorky.”

“No.”

It seemed absurd to discuss something as mundane as music at a time like this. But it was also oddly comforting. It made him feel like they could do this, that Dean and he could start over somewhere far away and everything would be all right.

xxxxxxxxx 

After the car had been fixed and their bags had been stowed away, Dean and Cas cleaned up the mess in the living room, Dean pocketing the gun. At around eleven o’clock, Dean decided it was late enough to lug _it_ to the trunk of the Impala. Before they headed to the cabin, they would visit the ATM and withdraw all the money from their bank accounts. They had to avoid detection, which meant no credit or debit cards, and no cell phones. Not the ones they currently owned, anyway. He figured they could buy some cheap pay-as-you-go phones at a random truck stop. At the cabin, they would pack a few weapons, which might be useful in a worst-case scenario.

“You ready?” he asked Cas once they were inside the car.

“Yes,” Cas said softly.

Dean threw his arm around Castiel’s headrest as he backed up. He tried not to think about what he was doing. About the fact _Dad_ was in the trunk . . .

And he was running off with the man people would think was responsible.

No one would understand. It wasn’t really Cas’s fault.

And Cas in the big house . . .

Forget it. He’d be _destroyed_.

In there with a bunch of hardened criminals, a naïve guy like that—

Soap on a rope and _rape_.

Cas wouldn’t be able to endure it, and neither would Dean.

Cas still seemed reluctant to let Dean plow ahead with his decision, but at least he wasn’t trying to stop him. He’d need to keep an eye on Cas, though, make sure he didn’t sneak away to contact the police while they were on the road.

Still, the more time passed, the more onboard he seemed. Now, he reached up a hand to Dean’s on the headrest then maneuvered Dean’s arm until his hand was in Cas’s lap. Cas enclosed it with both of his hands, almost cradling it.

“Thank you, Dean,” he rasped.

“For what?” Dean responded.

Cas placed a kiss on Dean’s hand. “Everything.”

They remained silent as they exited the city limits, Dean drawing trickles of strength from the hands surrounding his own. Cas’s posture was rigid, unsure but still surprisingly resolute.

Pitch-black darkness surrounded Dad’s cabin. Cas and he lurched through their blindness until Dean smacked into the door. With unsteady hands, he fumbled with his keys and eventually got the door unlocked. He flipped on a light and gestured for Cas to go inside first. Cas examined the wooden walls and bare furnishings. Dean indicated the couch. “Have a seat.” Cas sank into the well-worn sofa. “I’m gonna get Dad’s electric lantern,” Dean announced. When he returned, he set the lantern on the scratched-up coffee table and said, “Um, you want somethin’ to eat?” Cas shook his head. “You sure?”

“I don’t think I could eat anything even if I wanted to.” Cas’s voice was scratchy.

Truth was, Dean felt the same way, but he wanted to delay the inevitable. “We should probably eat something. Get some, um, strength. Or somethin’.”

In the kitchen, Dean gathered cheese, crackers, beef jerky, and beer, all of which he carried to the living room. He threw the food on the coffee table, cracked open one beer, and handed the other to Cas. “Liquid courage, man,” he mumbled. Dean downed the beer in five minutes then got himself another. After he finished his second bottle, Dean ventured, “Um, so we should probably get it over with.” _You can do this,_ he told himself.

“Are you sure?” Cas asked.

Dean stood up and held out a hand to Cas. “Let’s do this bitch,” he said gruffly. Cas accepted his hand, and they traipsed out the front door. “Dad’s got some firewood by the side of the house,” Dean muttered. Dean knew he was the stronger of the two, so he put Cas in charge of the lantern while he hauled logs to a spot a few feet from the car. Cas helped out with his unoccupied arm. Next, they dragged _it_ to the pile, and Dean lit up the pyre. He felt numb as he watched the fire. Cas dropped to his knees, clasped his hands, closed his eyes, and prayed silently. After some time, he opened his eyes and reminded Dean in a hoarse voice, “I can still turn myself in.”

“No,” Dean mumbled. It was too late now. He’d made himself an accomplice, and he didn’t regret it, not one bit.

Cas straightened up and gazed at the fire with him. The electric lantern rested on the ground between them, casting an eerie glow.

Infinity passed, and the fire still roared strong.

“So,” Dean tossed out to Cas. “Where do you wanna go?”

Cas tilted his head as he considered the question. Finally, he braved a tiny smile and replied, “With you, always.”

Dean studied Cas in the flickering light and chanced a smile of his own. “Me, too. With you. Always.”

xxxxxxxxxx

Green bore into blue into green.

The exchange: a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was difficult to write. I hope it worked. I know it's rather dark, but I do think the last bit is hopeful.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	22. Epilogue--Last Rites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.
> 
> Stay tuned for news about a potential sequel--I need your feedback.

As usual, Bobby arrived at his garage an hour before it was supposed to open. He straightened things up in the waiting room and on the front desk as he contemplated the events of yesterday.

John had started spouting nonsense about demons and how the priest must be the demon who’d killed his wife. Then he’d raved about how the demon was now trying to steal Dean’s soul.

It had been the first time John had said anything about demons to him, and he wondered where John had got the idea from. If John had always believed demons were responsible for the fire that killed Mary. John sure had pulled the wool over his eyes; there’d been a lot he hadn’t known. Like the fact he used his sons as punching bags. Especially Dean, it seemed. As a kid, he’d always been more banged up than Sam, anyway.

And Dean still wouldn’t let him talk to John about it. Stupid boy. Why was he so bent on sheltering his old man?

He hadn’t believed Dean’s fake optimism on the phone yesterday. He didn’t doubt for a second that things were far from fine, but him showing up probably woulda just made matters worse. Oh, well. He’d force Dean to tell him all about it.

When he finished with the front, Bobby retreated to the back, where he spotted a piece of paper sitting next to the mini fridge. What the hell could that be?

He picked it up and read:

> _Bobby,_
> 
> _I’m sorry. It was an accident. We took some of your old license plates. I hope you don’t mind. Thanks for everything._
> 
> _D & C_

Huh? D & C—that had to be Dean and Cas. What was an accident?

Eons passed, then suddenly a far-fetched conclusion occurred to him.

They couldn’t possibly mean—

John? Did something happen to John?

No. He’d just dial John and clear that up.

But when he did call John, there was no answer.

Perhaps the guy was still asleep.

But John never failed to get up by six a.m.

He had to be wrong.

But if John had gotten violent—

As Bobby knew he could; Dean’s bruises in November had been proof of that.

Why would they need license plates unless they were on the run? Why would they be on the run unless something unthinkable had happened?

Maybe he should go up there and check on John.

Not yet. He’d give those boys a little time first. Just in case his suspicions were true.

_What the hell had happened?_

Shit. At least those two idjits had each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! The end!
> 
> When I was halfway through writing this, I had an idea for a potential sequel. It involves two strands: first, Sam returns to town to look into what happened to his father. Meanwhile, as Cas and Dean are on the run, they're kidnapped by the Angelic Brethren (the cult Castiel grew up in). Trials and tribulations ensue. Eventually, Sam's path intersects with theirs, and everything ends happily.
> 
> Would anyone be interested in this sequel? If there's enough interest, I'll write it. However, I am about to get busier, so I won't be able to write it as quickly as I wrote this story.
> 
> Otherwise, we can pretend like Cas and Dean rode off into the sunset without further incident and lived happily ever after.
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts, both about the sequel idea and this story.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! I appreciate all readers as well as the feedback (in all forms--kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions, and comments); it's spurred me on as I've been writing this fic.


End file.
